


Dear Jim

by TheNavelTreatment



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, At This Point I'm Convinced This is What Actually Happened, But It Will Likely Become Canon Divergent, CIA, Consent Issues, Dark Sherlock, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Fix-It, His Last Vow, Infidelity, Jim Being Creepy, John has had enough, Keep an eye on the tags, Like really creepy, M/M, Not Particularly Mary Friendly, One-Sided Relationship, Past Drug Use, Past Rape/Non-con, Pining, Post-His Last Vow, Unhealthy Relationships, allusions to past torture and brainwashing, but not really, during his last vow, future sexy times, more like really emotionally destroyed Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-22 02:46:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1573292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNavelTreatment/pseuds/TheNavelTreatment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Dear Jim, will you fix it for me? To get rid of my lover's nasty wife? </em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pawn to e4

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a wild ride, but I hope you enjoy it! There are a lot of people who deserve thanks.
> 
> My fabulous betas [Cloistered Self](http://cloisteredself.tumblr.com/) and [Anigrrrl2](http://anigrrrl2.tumblr.com/) for making me so much better, and making sure everything made sense. 
> 
> Everyone at Philosophical Burlesque for providing support and encouragement; this fic would not have existed without all of you!
> 
> Anything you like about this fic is thanks to them!

Jim had helped a lot of people with a lot of problems. He’d seen things that would make grown men cry. He’d done things that would make grown men scream. But Jim got the surprise of his (second) life when his newest client made his way to the center of the web.

Jim liked being back in London. It was just so _adorable_ ; all those _ordinary_ people bustling about with their _adorable_ , _ordinary_ lives. He’d missed it. And there was no denying the fashion was better; there was no Westwood in the Sahara (oh how he longed to return to his signature suit - soon). As he approached the restaurant, he was nearly run over by a tall man with slicked back hair and glasses who was quickly on his way out.   

Jim recognized him immediately, even if his own identity was obscured under dye and makeup and obscene clothing  (he was known for being changeable after all). Magnussen. Charles Augustus Magnussen. Gosh, even his name was ridiculous. Jim knew all about Magnussen and his _pressure points_ (that was his word - how unoriginal). Magnussen was the worst kind of ordinary person; the kind who believed himself to be anything but. Also, Jim took pride in the fact that his plans always had an element of class, which was missing from Magnussen’s maneuverings (A fireplace. Really?). Finally, Magnussen’s only game, albeit one he was very good at, was blackmail. Blackmail! How _unimaginative_. Jim brushed by him with all the sneering superiority he could muster in his disguise, went through the door, and made his way to the back of the dining room.

Jim’s eyes locked on Sherlock in the flesh for the first time in over 2 years (photographs just didn’t cut it). He looked....remarkably the same, a contrast to Jim’s own altered appearance.  A little worse for the wear, but still ever so _delectable_. The hospital gown offered a tantalizing glimpse of an absolutely fascinating backside, and Jim openly stared before settling at the table and smirking at its owner. “Miss me?”

“Not as much as you, apparently, missed me.” Sherlock’s eyes had the slight glaze of morphine, and Jim’s grin widened as he watched him try and fight it off. Sherlock attempted to reclaim the higher ground, “Blonde, really?”

“I know right? I’m having just as much fun as ever. You look good, remarkably well for someone who jumped off a roof.”

“And that gun shot doesn’t seem to have left a mark on you.” Sherlock was slowly regaining his sarcasm as the drugs wore off.

Jim dropped his eyes from Sherlock’s face for the first time before asking, “So when did you know?”

Sherlock snorted, “Immediately. You had quite a tight grasp on that gun for a corpse.”

“Clever right? You gotta admit, mutual destruction _was_ sexier. And it was so fun watching you dance, finishing off what you _thought_ was the entirety of my empire....who was I to stand in the way?”

“My feelings exactly.” A waiter appeared, setting a tea service on the table. “Clearly we’ve both survived to fight another day, so why dwell on the past?” Sherlock poured them both tea, and once again pushing the cup towards Jim’s non-dominant hand.

Jim laughed softly, “Little bold to attempt a power play, isn’t it? I’m not the one in a gown, though it does show off some of your better assets.”

Jim paused as Sherlock’s eyes bore into him with silent loathing, “So why am I here Sherlock? As lovely as it is to see you, I have found other toys to play with in the big bad world, even if none are anywhere _near_ as pretty as you.”

Sherlock dropped his head for the first time and mumbled something. Jim thought he understood but wanted to hear again more clearly, “What was that darling? You’ll have to speak up. I’ve still got sand in my ears.”

Sherlock raised his head though still wouldn’t meet his eyes, “I need your help.”

Jim giggled, “That’s what I thought! Those four little words are enough to justify this ridiculous risk and ridiculous disguise. Ahhhh - say it again!”

“No.”

“Say it again, or I’ll walk out that door and fantasize about those words in your voice happily for _years_.”

Finally, Sherlock looked him in the eyes, though his gaze was missing the piercing quality Jim loved so much. “I need your help.”

“Well clearly,” Jim reached over to pour himself more tea. “Someone’s got you in the hospital, something I never managed. And I really should be angry; no one breaks my toys but me. So who was it? Certainly not Magnussen; that man’s hands are too slippery to hold a gun steady enough for such a crack shot.”

Sherlock cleared his throat and fiddled with the tap of his IV again, “Ahh, no, he just complicates the situation, and further underscores my need for outside....consultation.”

“Right then, so who was it? Who hurt my precious little Sherlock? Who do I have to skin?”

Sherlock seemed confused about how to respond, a look Jim had never seen before. When he replied, each word was delicately pronounced, “Now, she goes by Mary Watson.”

Mary Watson. With that name, Jim’s memory flipped to the wedding photos he’d specially procured (he could care less about John, but Sherlock had looked downright _edible_ in that suit). It had been an added bonus when he’d also recognized the bride. “Ahh yes, that’s what I thought. Isn’t she a gem?”

Sherlock’s gaze sharpened, “So you do know.....her?”

Jim giggled, “Know her? Honey I owned her. She was employee of the month; best shot in the business. At least until she got all _sentimental_.”

Sherlock shook his head, “So, what’s her name?”

Another giggle, “Now where’s the fun in that?”

Jim could see the frustration ripple across Sherlock’s features. “Fine. Why don’t you tell me exactly what “Mary” did in your employ? I can surmise the bareboned facts, but so far they lack the....colour your storytelling skills so aptly provide.”

Jim set his teacup down with a sigh. “Where to begin? Well, it begins where everything with us began, Sherlock, the pool. She set her sights on John then. Quite literally. She was the best marksman I had. She would have been able to set off that bomb and still give me plenty of time to get away.”

For a second Jim was caught in what looked like fond reminiscing. “But she was distracted by a different target. Once the game progressed, she kept her eye on John; she was one of the first to volunteer to watch Baker Street. And who was I to judge? I know how much fun it is to look at pretty things. But then her attachment got in my way.”

Jim caught Sherlock’s eye, and Sherlock saw the hint of the mania within for the first time, “You see, Sherlock darling, John wasn’t supposed to walk away from St. Bart’s, regardless of what happened to _you_. I figured you might have one more trick, that it would be more of a break the in action instead of a victory. So I came up with a way to win. Once you’d thrown yourself off that roof, John would be shot. Not _necessarily_ enough to kill him, mind you, but enough to throw you off your game.”

Jim stopped for a moment as Sherlock struggled to rise from the table. “Oh calm down, is that really so shocking? I’ve had snipers on John before, and also c _overed him in_ _Semtex_. Honestly, you should have expected it. When have I ever played fair? And it didn’t happen anyway, so your.. _.emotions_ are completely pointless.”

Jim waited until Sherlock settled down, and grinned when the look Sherlock shot him could fry eggs. “It didn’t happen, because ‘Mary’ got all sentimental” (even though Jim loathed air quotes, he took a perverse glee in using them now). “She wouldn’t shoot her precious John. Needless to say, I was spitting mad when I got off the roof, and she must have anticipated that reaction, because she was long gone. I figured she would turn up eventually so I turned my mind to other things. How _adorable_ that it actually worked out between them. I basically played matchmaker; I’m a bit offended I didn’t warrant an invite to their wedding. Tell me; was their special day just _magical_?”

Sherlock’s face went through a multitude of minor expressions; anger, sadness, desire, pain, before finally settling on one Jim hadn’t anticipated; resignation. When he replied, it was more to himself, “It was lovely.”

Jim let Sherlock have a moment (What tact! His time away really had made a difference) before he asked, “So how did you get from best man to number one target? What did you do? Sleep with her husband?”

Sherlock’s expression froze, but the blush slowly colouring it answered Jim’s question, “You DID! Naughty boy. Of course it would take marriage to another for you to make a move on John. You want what you can’t have Sherlock; you and I are similar that way.” Jim batted his eyelashes.

Sherlock’s blush deepened, and his stuttered response reminded Jim of the roof when he’d revealed the computer code didn’t exist, “It’s not...that....it’s NOT, I’ve always....wanted him. There was just never any time. And then I was dead and I was gone and then I came back and he was gone...And then I just didn’t want to lose him so I gave it up. Until his Stag with the drinking and the dancing and the “I don’t mind”.....” Sherlock cut himself off abruptly and looked horrified, before he gathered up his pride again. “None of this is relevant to why I reached out to you.”

“Au contraire, my dear, it’s entirely relevant. You’re cheating on me; I should be appalled. I’m sure John is nowhere near as _imaginative_ as I could be in bed.” Jim considered his hands thoughtfully - he really should get a manicure while he was in London - before continuing, “I’m surprised though, Johnny boy has clearly been in love with you for _so_ long, why didn’t he jump at the opportunity to leave that bitch of a wife behind and live out all his days with you.”

Jim’s casual acknowledgment of Sherlock’s most secret fantasies seemed to shatter the facade he had tentatively rebuilt, and he started again with the dreadful stammering, “Iff-f you think that, you know nothing, _nothing_ about John Watson. It was two days before the wedding, John Watson is not the kind of man who would leave a woman waiting at the altar. He would go along with it, and then quietly end it sometime later. But then at the wedding - the one deduction I didn’t want to make - but all the signs were there.....of a pregnancy.” Jim let a whistle eerily similar to the one in the sitting room of 221B. “So, now John is stuck. He’s not the kind of man who would leave his pregnant wife. John Watson is a good man.”

While Sherlock had been talking, Jim stared wistfully at a waiter who went by the table and murmured, “Gosh look at that tie. I miss ties. I haven’t worn a tie in forever.” But at the “good man” his head whipped forward and he laughed dervishly, “But not good enough to stay out of your bed huh? Ain’t lust grand?”

Sherlock stared at the remains of his pasta. Jim really didn’t like the lost tone filtered through Sherlock’s usually-rich baritone, “I.....tried. I tried to stay away, to push him out, to make it easier.....But I am _not_ a good man, I am a selfish one, and once John barged his way back in, I didn’t have the power to push him away.”

“According to my reports, rather a lot of your time since your reunion has been spent in the hospital, which means you two lovebirds have been forced to get quite creative. I would have thought John Watson as a soldier would have been your kink, darling, but I suppose doctor/patient holds its own appeals. Tell me, how _do_ the two of you fit on those tiny little beds? It must require quite the contortions on your part...”

Jim let Sherlock squirm for a moment before he leaned forward, “So what happened? Not content to just be the other woman Sherlock? Or has ‘Mary’ forced your hand?  Did she catch you in a _compromising position_?”

Sherlock shifted in his seat, “No, actually, I caught her.”

Sherlock barreled on, derailing the entirely new chain of fantasies materializing in Jim’s head. “It was compromising, but not what you’re thinking. I caught her in the middle of trying to take out Magnussen. He had information on her - he has information on everyone - and it turns out he had been taunting her for sometime.  She finally decided to take action.  Unfortunately, she chose the same night I broke into Magnussen’s office on behalf of a client. When I interrupted her she had him on his knees with a gun to his head.” Sherlock tried to ignore how Jim licked his lips at the last sentence. “I thought I could reason with her. I was wrong.”

Sherlock picked up his fork and played with the remains of a meal they both knew he had no intention of eating. “I didn’t have to tell John. I was the only one in the room, other than her and Magnussen, and he certainly wasn’t going to talk. Not his style. I could have just let it go, let John lead a good life, even if it was a lie, and take what he could give me on the side.”

Sherlock made eye contact with Jim, and it could have been Baker street three years ago, with them both in well-tailored suits reclining in front of a fireplace. “But the last time I left John out of a plan it broke him. It left him vulnerable to her and I couldn’t do that again. And as I’ve already said, I’m a selfish man; I would never be happy with less than everything.”

Jim shrugged, “You don’t have to preach to me, sexy, I always put myself first”

Sherlock dropped his gaze, “So I set it up for John to find out. And I finally saw what he looked like on the pavement outside of St. Barts and I never want to see that again. I told him the truth, while simultaneously pushing him back to the only person who’s hurt him worse than me. It seemed the safest place until I could figure out my next move.”

At the word “safe,” Jim let out a hollow laugh, “Safe? With _that_ wife? John Watson is definitely in danger.”

Sherlock gave him an odd look, “Yes, which is why you’re here. John is in angry and hurt and in danger, and I don’t know what to do. He’s living with the worst threat, but I can’t count out Magnussen, now that John’s also in his sights. They’ve both outplayed me!”

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair and for a minute Jim fantasized they were his own.

“The truth about Mary was right in front of me the whole time but I missed it! And Magnussen, Magnussen has beat me at every turn! I am too _involved_ to see the way out clearly. To fix this, to win, I need to be myself, but detached. In short,” and his voice dropped an octave. “I need you. You never feel.”

Jim reached across the table towards Sherlock and felt a perverse thrill when Sherlock yanked his hands away and into his lap. “Yes you do, sweetheart, look what happens to your life without me!”

Jim clapped his hands together with a glee that turned Sherlock’s stomach, but a moment later he was all business. “So tell me what you know. I’m sure you’re not quite as helpless as you look. There’s no use in fooling me, my dear!” Suddenly the mania was back, and he was wagging his finger at Sherlock like he actually was a child.

Sherlock fiddled with the silverware. He had forgotten how much Jim could see through to his core and twist it for his own purposes. “There is a flash drive, that Mary gave to John. It has A.G.R.A. on it.” Sherlock paused, to see if the initials had any effect on the man sitting opposite him. He was disappointed; Jim had a mask to rival his own.

“She gave it to John - claimed it had all the information on her past life - then begged him not to read it “if he ever loved her.”’ Sherlock spat out the last part of the sentence as though the words themselves scorched his tongue. “It was a brilliant piece of manipulation, something I might have done myself before....before. John will never look at it.”

“I don’t know, Johnny boy seems like quite the damaged little soldier. He might act differently since it turned out his previous loyalty was so.....” Jim took a savored the last word and it came out as a purr, “....unfounded.”

Sherlock fixated on the artwork behind Jim’s head before addressing it quietly, “He never asked me.” A minute later he shook it off and continued at an almost-normal pace. “I don’t think there’s anything of consequence on it, Mary’s too smart for that, but I also think she’s relying on John _not_ reading it, so whatever’s there is likely designed to hurt him, should he betray what she sees as his neverending capacity for forgiveness. Once I return to Baker Street, I should have an opportunity to take a look at it; John’s staying there while he sorts things out.”

‘Well isn’t that convenient? How _cozy_. Tell me, does Mrs. Hudson still bake? The last time I was at Baker Street she was making the most delicious-smelling apple pie...” A single, miniscule twitch in Sherlock’s jaw was all that betrayed Sherlock’s alarm, but it was enough for Jim to count it as a victory. A single, miniscule nod to let Sherlock know he noticed and he continued, “You’re right, of course, the information is likely worthless, but still handy to have around. Make a double and switch it out with John’s. I’m sure you’ll find an opening amidst all the pillow talk. But that really doesn’t solve your problem, now does it?”

“No you’re right.” Sherlock steepled his fingers under his nose and Jim could almost see the real Sherlock fighting through the sad veneer in front of him. “She can’t be killed, not with the baby in the picture.” He kept going right over Jim’s skeptical snort. “I need more information, and Mycroft has been uncharacteristically lacking on that front. Which really only leaves me one option.”

“Magnussen,” Jim gestured vaguely toward the door.

“Magnussen. While I find him a reprehensible excuse for a human being, I can’t deny his talents for harvesting information others miss. I thought I would have what I needed today, but it appears I have once again....miscalculated. A minor setback, I should have what I need by Christmas Day when I pay him a visit.”

“So what?” Jim sneered, “You think you’ll just waltz into Appledore, get what you need, and waltz right back out again. Magnussen will let such a superb prize as John Watson’s wife go? Just like that?” He leaned forward and snapped his fingers centimeters from Sherlock’s nose.

“Obviously not. I’ll have to make some sort of deal. I’m sure I can offer him something suitabl---”

“You’ll have to kill him.” Jim’s voice was toneless and flat. “The only way you’ll get what you want from Magnussen with no strings attached is to kill him. Are you prepared to do that, Sherlock my dear? Are you still prepared to _burn_?”

Sherlock lifted his eyes from his fingers and zeroed in on Jim’s eyes across the table so he could see the truth there, “Whatever it takes.”

“Splendid!” Jim dropped Sherlock’s gaze and cocked his head, “Sounds like you have it all figured out. What ever do you need little old me for?”

“I told you. I’m too involved to grasp the full perspective. Mistakes have already been made, and I can’t afford any more moving forward. I need a consultant to ensure the process runs smoothly. I,” Sherlock grimaced as the words were wrenched out of him, “....need you.”

“Oh and how does John feel about this? Does he know I’m too play his knight in shining armor, saving him from the clutches of the awful witch?”

“No....you’re not...he’s not....I’m...no. John doesn’t know. John can never know.” His tone and stare bore no argument, but Jim just _couldn’t_ resist poking at such fragile self worth. “Oh really? I’m no expert but deceit does seem like a tenuous foundation for a budding relationship.”

Sherlock knew that, knew how wrong this would go, how much John would hate him if he ever found out, but there were simply no other options. “Still, I need you.”

“Too bad!” Jim tugged his garish sweatshirt straight as though he was preparing to leave. “Unlike you, sweetheart, I’m still flying under the radar. While this game sounds delightful, it seems to have more risk than reward at my end. What’s in it for me?” Jim smoothed his hands across the table top and peered up at Sherlock through blond bangs.

“Well, with Magnussen out of the way, they’ll be a media empire out in the open-”

“You think I’ll sell my second life for a couple of newspapers, charming as they are?” Jim shot Sherlock a look that said he was the crazy one.

“Mary, betrayed you and left a job uncompleted only to run off with the mark. Surely that can’t be good for business?”

“Darling, if I went after every person who stabbed me in the back, your fine behind wouldn’t be in that chair right now and John Watson would have never have made it down the aisle.”

Sherlock bit back the threat that almost rolled off his tongue. He needed to placate Jim; **he could not fail in this** ; too much was at stake. Sherlock bit his lower lip to draw Jim’s attention to his mouth before dropping his voice into his lower register to reply, “With the distractions of Magnussen and Mary gone, my attention would be free to focus on the game that really matters. Don’t _you_ miss _me_?”

Jim pretended to ponder this and drummed his hands against the china of an unused place setting. “I don’t know. I miss the Sherlock who squared off with me on St. Bart’s roof. Who was ready to rise to any challenge I put in front of him. Who was so deliciously not boring. Is he still in there? Because I certainly don’t see him in front of me.”

  
Sherlock watched Jim’s eyes roam across the stake and saw the hysteria overtaking his pupils. As Jim continued his speech the timbre of his voice rose higher and higher and finally broke, “Look at you! You’re like a lost little toy! You’re Pinocchio with the strings cut off, except you miss them. You don’t know how to be a _real boy_. I’m disappointed in you Sherlock. You’re a mess. You’re worse than ordinary. You’re...... ** _sentimental_**.” On the last word he rose slightly out of his seat and gripped the edge of the table with white knuckles.

Sherlock considered the man in front of him, who in appearance was so different but whose heart would never change. He knew this was a horrible idea, knew the irony of entrusting your life with someone who had tried to end it. There was no going back once this deal was made. But he was desperate; for John, for himself, for them. Once Mary was out of the way, he knew he could deal with Jim, but for now he needed him to cooperate. The rest would come together later.

“Still, emotionally compromised or not, I’ve beaten you. I’m alive, John’s alive, and you’re a shadow of your former self forced to subsist in a desert far from civilization. And are you really sure I’m as lost a cause as you seem to think? I’ve learned some fascinating tricks in my time away; don’t you want to see what I can do? See if I’m still. better. than. you? Sherlock cocked his head and put on his most enticing smile, hoping he still had the ability to push just the right combination of the madman’s buttons.

Jim dropped his gaze from Sherlock and squinted at the table; Sherlock could almost see the strands of the web spinning out from his forehead, as he considered all possible scenarios springing from Sherlock’s offer. After a moment he looked up again, and while most of the hysteria had receded, it was obvious he was just keeping it together. “Well, well, well, I think this lull has gone on long enough! You have made quite the mess, but don’t worry, daddy’s here to clean it up now! And then we can get back to what’s _really_ important.”

One last manic gleam and he was all business. “Go home, have a few athletic rounds with John, and I’ll be in touch soon, sexy. I think it’s about time I rejoin civilization, and I can’t think of a better way to do it.” He stood and brushed his hair out of his eyes.

“Though, don’t think you’re getting off so lightly. I will require an additional form of payment.”

“Oh, what’s that?” Sherlock asked with rehearsed nonchalance.

Jim openly leered before replying, “Nothing you won’t enjoy.”

This time, Sherlock couldn’t suppress the shudder that ran through him. Jim leaned in and ran his fingers over an errant curl whispering, “Catch you later,” and strolled out before Sherlock’s morphine delayed reactions had a chance to process the invasion of his personal space.

Sherlock sank back in his seat, the last of his bravado following Jim out the door. The pieces were in motion and there was no stopping them now. It would all be worth it. It had to be. For John. With a sigh, he lifted a slightly trembling finger and held down on the “+” sign on the pump attached to his arm.

 

 

* * *

 

“What the hell have you done?” John comes striding into his parents; kitchen in that hideous blazer, the look on his face shattering what was left of Sherlock’s heart. He’s exhausted; from playing the part of forgiving husband, from not flinching when Mary hugged him, from hiding the feelings towards Sherlock that he hadn’t even realized were there, and most recently from worrying that the drug’s currently coursing through Mary’s system would somehow impact his unborn child.

  
 _This will all be worth it. For us._ Sherlock repeats this mantra as he picks Mycroft’s laptop up off the table and tucks it under his arm. “A deal with the devil...”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this goes without saying, but this is a work of fiction, and I do not actually condone consulting with a criminal mastermind to get rid of your lover's nasty wife.  
> So the big question; is there more of this fic? The short answer, yes. There's more. I have it sketched out in my head and it just needs to make its way to the page. I'll work on that as soon as possible. I can say to watch the warnings, and that I can see some shifts in POV, so if that's not your thing be warned. And definitely future sexy times (though probably _not_ on a hospital bed).  
>  Stay updated with this fic (and lots of other things) on [Tumblr](http://the-navel-treatment.tumblr.com/)!


	2. Knight to f3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Dear Jim, I shot a man in cold blood. Now what?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks to my betas, [Selfie](http://cloisteredself.tumblr.com/) & [Slayer](http://sherlockslayerofdragons.tumblr.com/), and all of PB for being so damn wonderful. 
> 
> Also, Ariane DeVere's wonderful [transcripts](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/67234.html/) were a huge help with this section!

Initially, Sherlock paid his visitor little attention. He was in the fog that settled over him ever since _he shot Magnussen point blank in the head_. The last clear image his brain held was John’s profile, a beacon in the storm, solidifying for Sherlock the choice he must make. Jim’s voice was in the background. _Are you still prepared to burn_? Sherlock was, for John, and he ignited the fire with the bullet that crashed through Magnussen’s brain. Then,  the world collapsed around him and settled into this damn fog, filled with angry questions and rough hands and The Look on John’s face as he backed away from Sherlock. And for what? He had hardly delivered John from Mary’s grip; if anything he had pushed John more solidly toward her. He had burned, but the flames were out of his control and they were engulfing John too, just like that awful bonfire. Soon both of them would be just so much ash.

Sherlock turned his thoughts over and over again in his mind until they blurred together, obscuring everything else. He wasn’t sure why the guards moved him to the viewing room; it wasn’t like Threats to National Security were allowed visitors. He was buried in the rubble of his Mind Palace when a bearded ginger knocked on the glass in front of him  with a cheery, “Let’s turn that frown upside down!”

Sherlock jolted out of his seat and stared at the man who sat down opposite from him. Glasses, beard, red hair, tweed coat, nervously fidgeting with the handles of a briefcase as he placed it on the table. He looked the exact opposite of the eerie calm that Jim exuded most of the time. But still... “Redhead now?”

The man let out cackle in the tone Jim had perfected, the one that sent a shiver up Sherlock’s spine with no effort at all, and Sherlock knew it could be no one else.

“Well, we already knew I was soulless, so if the shoe fits!” Jim batted his eyelashes, and Sherlock realized even those had been dyed to match. It was startling the way Moriarty could change his appearance, lending credence to the _he’s not a man at all_ point of view.

“How did you even get in here?” Sherlock longed to sink back into the fog, which was sufficiently distracting him from accepting the reality of his situation.

Jim curled his lips in a mock frown, ‘Oh love, why do you doubt me? You know I can get anywhere I want. I’m the man with the key remember?”

Jim took out a notepad and pen, and started scribbling, occasionally nodding his head as though they were in the middle of deep discussion, even as he continued their conversation. “This time, the key was a professor with a psychology degree from a tiny little university in an even tinier town in Austria, whose speciality just happens to be in Antisocial Personality Disorder and whose research centers on it’s manifestation in the context of prison life.” Jim cocked his head and made eye contact with Sherlock, “Gee, it’s almost like I was tailor-made for you, isn’t it?”

Sherlock broke eye contact and scoffed at that statement. “And no one noticed? Really?”

Jim sighed, eyes downcast, and used a very slow tone, as though Sherlock was a naughty school boy. “Sherlock, the committee is more concerned with the fact that you _shot the head of a worldwide media conglomerate at point blank in front of 20 witnesses_ ” - there was an almost predatory gleam in Jim’s eyes as he looked up at Sherlock, “than little old, unassuming me.”

Jim rearranged his features into a facsimile of an innocent expression. “Maybe your brother would notice, but he’s rather busy making sure he doesn’t get thrown in here _with_ you for treason. So for the moment, you’re all _mine_.” The leer returned to Jim’s features.

“Now play along please,” Jim turned his attention back to the pad in front of him. “The committee is trusting me to determine what would happen in a prison setting. Would you fight? Tear apart the other prisoners? Or would it turn you on? That, I think, is closer to the mark. I know you carry handcuffs on you all the time, darling, and I can imagine some of the creative uses they could be put to...”

Sherlock looked around for a guard, or anyone to bring him back to his cell, but of course they were alone. He sighed and decided to get this over with as soon as possible. To avoid letting Jim twist his words, the best strategy was to interact in brief, to the point sentences. Unfortunately, he didn’t have control over his temper just yet, and it was overjoyed at finally having an outlet. He tapped out his displeasure in staccato beats on the desk in front of him. “So why are you here? To hear you talk, you have so _much_ going on in the world; I’m shocked I even warrant a mention, much less a visit. Come to gloat? Did you ever intend on helping me, or are you just enjoying watching me fall apart?”

That comically over-exaggerated frown was back on Jim’s face. “Can’t I just say I missed you? And besides, I don’t enjoy seeing you like this Sherlock. A shell of what you were. All that space in your brain being taken up with emotions. No, I’m trying to get you out; it’s not my fault if you’re too _ordinary_ to understand how I’m doing it.”

A humorless chuckle escaped from Sherlock’s throat, “Well, I doubt your plan included me shooting Magnussen in the head, not even you can get around---”

Jim held up a hand, “Sherlock, dear, really, I can only tolerate so much stupidity until it stops being cute. I knew exactly what was going to happen with Magnussen, in fact I told you what was going to happen. But did you listen? No. Why. do. you. never. _listen_?” Jim hissed the last word out in the closest approximation of a scream he could make without actually raising his voice.

Sherlock closed his eyes heavily - how could he have thought involving Jim would in any way go well. “So you wanted me behind glass, open to your observation?”

Jim swept an indecently exposing look over Sherlock, “Watch the tone sexy, though I do enjoy the view. And it’s not like I haven’t considered this, keeping you locked away, available to my eyes only.” Jim stroked a hand lovingly over the glass, and Sherlock flinched like it was his own cheek.

“But the best part of our relationship is the game; right now it’s a little one sided, and we both know how _boring_ that is.” Jim picked up the pad, which Sherlock could now see was covered with notes peppered with scientific terms and not related to their actual conversation at all, and put it away.

“I do have an end game, Sherlock, it’s a pity you can’t work out what it is. But we’ll fix that soon enough! Go along with the flow, don’t give anything away, and trust in Daddy to take care of you. I know it’s lonely in there, but don’t worry, I’m going to be with you again _very_ soon.” Sherlock looked up at in Jim in horror, which was the reaction Jim was hoping for. He couldn’t contain his glee as he shot Sherlock a wink and sauntered out of the room with more more attitude than the man he was impersonating could ever hope to pull off.

Sherlock watched him leave and then put his head in his hands. _Oh John, what have I done? I was trying to help, and I’ve only made everything worse._

* * *

_John, there’s something I should say; I’ve...meant to say always and then never have..._

 

Here they were. Sherlock, leaving John again. For somewhere in Eastern Europe. For 6 months at most. Sherlock _knew_ that he should be plotting, that his brain should be whirling through various scenarios and strategies to get himself out, but he found he didn’t have the energy. He was exhausted. Another part of his brain knew he should be keeping alert, look for traces of Jim in what was happening to him, ways that Jim was going to break out and restart the game. But he was too tired for that either. All he wanted to do was collapse into the man separated from him by a few feet of concrete and miles and miles of things unspoken.

 

_Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I might as well say it now...._

 

And that was the truth, wasn’t it? They were unlikely to meet again. Jim Moriarty could anticipate a lot of things, but Sherlock doubted he could anticipate the committee’s unorthodox decision. Sherlock had been looking forward to how Jim engineered a prison break. Whatever it was, it would be ridiculously over the top and foolproof. This was another case entirely. Undercover work, third party actors, less than ideal conditions; Sherlock couldn’t see Jim’s hand in his current fate, and what’s more, he didn’t even try. He just didn’t care. He was leaving _John_ , the only person he’d ever met worth caring about. And he was leaving him in a worse situation than ever: at the mercy of Mary, whoever she was. Who knew how long he’d be safe? How long until she viewed him as more of a liability? How long before both John and his child were destroyed in her path? He couldn’t even trust Mycroft to look after them, as he still had failed to uncover any useful intel on Mary’s past. For the first time, John would truly be alone. Before, even when Sherlock had been away, he had felt like John’s guardian - looking down on him from afar, eliminating those who would harm him. Now, no more; once Sherlock got on the plane, it was over. He couldn’t do anything to save John, and he found he lacked the energy to try and save himself.

Beneath his concern for John, the more selfish part of Sherlock’s soul cried for what he was losing. He was leaving he man he loved - the only man he had ever loved - and John didn’t even know. In all their stolen moments, they had never put voice to their feelings. For John, because his emotions were spinning out of control like a top, and for himself, because he didn’t want to ruin what little of John he was allowed. Sherlock tried to show his feelings bleeding through each touch, but John had no idea of the depth of Sherlock’s regard for him. In all their stolen moments, Sherlock had never found the right words. _You’re my everything. Everything, all I’ve ever been or tried to be, it was all for you. You saved me, and you continue to, and it is the greatest honor of my life to do the same for you. I love you John, with everything I am, and everything I ever will be. And if this is the end, it was more than worth it._ In his head, it all sounded inadequate, but as this was his last chance to give voice to his emotions, Sherlock had to try.

As Sherlock looked in John’s eyes and started to speak, he saw it creeping in on the edges. _The Look_. It was in John’s eyes when he learned the truth about Mary. It peered back at Sherlock after he had shot Magnussen. Sherlock could vividly picture It in John’s  eyes when John watched him plummet off of Barts. The Look that said John’s whole world was about to crash down, and he was just barely keeping it together. That one wrong move, the slightest breeze, would cause him to shatter. If Sherlock told John the truth now, he would be wielding the wrecking ball himself, and this time, there would be no one to put John back together. Sherlock was selfish, he knew that, but not selfish enough to do as he wanted, to leave John to pick up the carnage. This was the last thing he could give to John; the strength to persevere. So instead of any emotional declaration...

 

_Sherlock is actually a girl’s name._

  
The smile he got in return made it worth it.

When it was time leave, Sherlock stuck out his hand; any more contact and he would launch himself into John’s arms and never let go. As it was, he hung on as long as he could stretch his resolve, before turning and entering the plane without a second glance.

He took a window seat opposite the side from where John and Mary were still standing. He couldn’t watch them pass, couldn’t watch the life that might have been disappear _again_. At the thought, his resolve broke, the tears flowed freely and he couldn’t bring himself to care. Mycroft’s minion across from him might as well have been furniture, and once he got off this plane, Sherlock Holmes would no longer exist. He was relishing his moment of sorrow when suddenly the furniture had the audacity to start talking.

“Sir? It’s your brother.”

Sherlock took the offered mobile and tried to steady his voice, “Mycroft?”

“Hello little brother. How’s the exile going?”

Sherlock was outraged - why couldn’t Mycroft let him have one moment where he was weak and sentimental - but covered it quickly, “I’ve only been gone four minutes.” He hoped he telegraphed enough annoyance to end the conversation.

No such luck. Mycroft sighed, and Sherlock heard the strain of tension underlying it. This baffled Sherlock; was Mycroft about to show remorse for his situation? Again, he was surprised, “Well, I certainly hope you’ve learned your lesson. As it turns out, you’re needed.”

Sherlock refused to get his hopes up. Obviously this meant his mission was being rerouted to another locale. What could be worse than Eastern Europe? The Sahara? Antarctica? A position in the bureaucracy?

Sherlock decided to forestall his brother being anything less than direct, “Oh, for God’s sake. Make up your mind. Who needs me this time?”

Mycroft paused a moment, during which Sherlock felt all the anxiety his brother was trying to keep contained and Sherlock felt his mind unsteadily spring to life - _Why was Mycroft anxious? This entire scheme was his idea. What could make him sound like that?_ After a beat, Mycroft said simply, “England.”

In that moment, the pilot of the plane activated the on-flight entertainment system and the TV screens crackled with static that began resolving into a figure. Before the words being broadcast became clear, Sherlock had a flashback to a conversation that had kicked off the last round of the game. _In a world of locked doors, the man with the key is king, and honey you should see me in a crown.._

There was only one person who could hijack the entire British communications network at exactly the right time to free him (other than Mycroft, and the tone of his voice on the phone proved his lack of involvement), and Sherlock berated himself for being too filled with self-loathing to be paying attention and putting it together sooner.  He needed to snap out of it, and quickly, because this meant the detente was over. As he closed his eyes and absorbed this change of plans, his phone buzzed with an incoming text. Sherlock read it and chuckled; it seemed Moriarty was in a reminiscent mood as well....

 

**Long live the king.**

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was a bit short! It had to segue out of the end of s3 and into the unknown.
> 
> The reason Jim went to a tiny university in Austria is because  _I_ studied at a tiny university in Austria when I was in college. He really is becoming me.
> 
> The "depth of my regard" is a shout out to both canon and  _Elementary_ , because I am an equal opportunity Sherlock Holmes lover.
> 
> Next time: scheming & sexy times. And we add some new players to our game. I'm hoping to update this biweekly, if not sooner.
> 
> Comments are much appreciated, and come say [hi](http://the-navel-treatment.tumblr.com/)!
> 
>  
> 
>  


	3. Pawn to d4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Dear Jim, I don't know what to do. My husband's not the father._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the thanks and love to my beta, [Selfie](http://cloisteredself.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> And all the friends who've kept me writing.

Jim looked approvingly in the mirror at his reclaimed hair; black really was his color. With the hair on his head right again and no excess hair anywhere else, Jim finally felt like he was _back_. The suit hanging over the door would tie everything together. Jim lovingly stroked the lapel. _Westwood. It’s been so long_.

The Henry VIII suite wasn’t up to Jim’s usual standards, but the location was to die for. He wondered if one of the amenities offered was having your bedmate beheaded when you tired of them; just the thought made him giggle. He was in an inordinately elated mood. It felt _good_ to be back. London was at his feet, literally, and open for the taking. The game was about to restart, and he couldn’t want to spin new puzzles through the length of the city. He happily fell into scheming, humming _I am Henry the eighth I am_ under his breath.

Jim twirled around when he heard a lock at the door. He glided over and peered out the keyhole, “Who issssss it?” A thick Cockney accent came through the door and assaulted his eardrums, “It’s me, boss.”

Jim’s mood drooped as he pulled open the door. “Oh, Moran, very good. We’re still waiting on her.”

Moran pushed past him, pulling off the heavy sweatshirt and beanie he’d donned to (not very successfully) mask his identity. “She’s certainly taking her sweet time, then?”

Jim flounced over to a chair and threw himself down with his legs crossed over the arm, “Yes, well, she is pregnant, maybe she got assaulted by a craving on the way. Given her personality it’s probably something rather horrific, like the blood of virgins.” Jim giggled at his joke, while Moran shifted his feet with an uncertain chuckle. He’d forgotten just how disturbed his boss truly was.

Jim caught his discomfort and wagged his finger, “Now, now Moran calm down. I’m sure she’s taking perfect care of _your_ child. Tell me, are just tickled to be dad?”

Moran continued his awkward shuffling as he answered, “Ah no. Because I’m not. A father. That wasn’t part of the deal. I’m just a stud.”

Jim was already bored with Moran; so dependable but absolutely no fun to play with, “Yes well, we’ll see. Now sit down; you’re going to wear a hole through the floor.

They sat in awkward silence until there was a knock. This time, Jim didn’t even get up, “Come in dear, the gangs all here!”

A very pregnant, very annoyed blond woman came through the door, made for the large bed, and eased herself down against the headboard, “Sorry I was late. Had to wait till John snuck off to the affair he thinks I don’t know he’s having.”

“Ahh, yes,” Jim clapped his hands and shifted forward, crossing his legs, “How are the lovebirds?”

“Who cares?” The woman propped her legs up with a couple of stray pillows, “Sorry, this has been hell on my ankles. I don’t care because it’s going to be ending _very soon_ , Jim, as long as you keep your end of the deal.”

“Yes well, that’s why we’re here, isn’t it love? We were just waiting for you to start, Agat--”

“Mary.” The woman sat up and fixed him with a cold stare, “My name is Mary.”

Jim held his hands up in an appeasing gesture, “Fine, alright _Mary_ , keep your hormones in check. Gosh you really are method.” Jim swung his head around to peer at the other member of the party, “What about you Moran? Shall I call you _David_?”

“Ah no,” Moran cleared his throat, “I am perfectly content as myself. David is an annoying little shit.”

“Pity, it was such a joy to see you groveling at the wedding, it’s an attitude that really does suit you. So, now that we’re all present, we can being.”

“But why are we here?” Mary was leaning back and closing her eyes.

“Well, because you want to keep John all to yourself, of course--”

Mary cut Jim off again (he had forgotten how frustrating her independent streak could be), “No, I mean why are we here, in this particular hotel? Holmes has a bolt hole right next door, with which I am intimately acquainted.”

“Ahh yes,” Jim crooned, “the site of your undoing. Still feeling a little put out, are we? I wish I could have seen the look on John’s face when he discovered your secret, he’s just _adorable_ when he’s falling apart.” Mary shot him a glare but said nothing.

“Don’t you see? It’s the perfect spot! With all this sentimental value attached. We aren’t trying to hide from Sherlock, we’re welcoming him here! Soon enough this will be the site of _his_ undoing.”

Both Mary and Moran leaned forward, sensing that Jim was gearing up to unveil the logistics of his plan, and both knowing from experience that they would suffer brutally if they missed anything.

Jim reclined his in seat in direct contrast to his minions, as though he had not a care in the world. “Tomorrow morning, I’ll text dear Sherlock and let him know it’s time to pay up. Mary, give it an hour, maybe two - I intend to be _very_ thorough - and show little Johnny the text I send you. I’ll make it something fun, a la that little skip code trick Magnussen pulled, except better.” Jim sighed, it was hard for him to admit that there was anything Magnussen, God rest his soul, had been good at. Quickly he snapped out of it.

“I’m sure he’ll come running right over, though I doubt he’ll linger once he sees Sherlock’s _true_ nature. Moran, follow him once he leaves here and make sure he ends up back in the suburbs so Mary can sweep in to save the day!” Jim shot Mary a saucy wink and she shot him the finger.  

“Then we’ll all have what we want. I get Sherlock, Mary gets John, and Moran, well I’m not sure what you want, but--”

Moran interrupted his boss, a risky move, as he’d never been as bold as Mary, but this had been bothering him, “Personally Sir, I’d be content to never hear the name ‘David’ again.” He looked down and mumbled, “I’ll start by burning that damn tie.”

Jim was momentarily thrown off by the intrusion in his monologue, but was in such a good mood, he just threw back his head and let out a musical, slightly-manic giggle, “That can be arranged! Tomorrow, my dears, all our wishes come true!”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock hadn’t seen John when he got off the plane; he and Mary were bundled up immediately into a car and taken to a safe house until their flat could be secured. Sherlock was whisked off in the other direction. For everyone’s safety. Even once they got the all-clear, it was five days before John could get away. Sherlock supposed he could have dropped by, but he always drew the line at the place John shared with Mary. It was _hers_ and Sherlock knew it was hard enough for John to figure out his way between them without blurring the margins. Mary seemed to have no qualms, breezing into 221B like she owned the place, but Sherlock was trying to do what was easiest with John ~~and he was confident 221B was where John would end up anyway~~.

He came close to breaking _that_ vow after five days of silence. Almost a week since seeing John, and longer since their last intimate encounter; Christmas eve night, when Sherlock tried to make up for the anguish he knew John would go through the next day (though he did not yet know the depths).  Which is why when he got the text - **Free tonight?** \- he spun into a motion that hadn’t stopped yet. He started to compulsively clean the flat, before realizing that would probably upset John more on top of what was going on. Then, he contented himself with ripping the knife out of the mantle and slamming it back in again, while pretending it was ~~some~~ noone in particular.

As he went through the repetitions, his brain analyzed the events of the past week. Almost dying (trivial, really, but happening with more startling regularity). Killing a man (Would have been a big deal, at one point, but was mild compared to the way he had dispatched foes during his time away). Sharing a moment of affinity with Mycroft (deeply unsettling). But what really bothered him was The Goodbye. Not so much the leaving John; he had done that before. Not so much the possibility of never coming back; he had done that before too. What really bothered Sherlock was what he had said:

_Sherlock is really a girl’s name._

He winced in annoyance at the memory. While it had been nice to see John smile, Sherlock can’t believe had had chosen that moment to make a _jok_ e. What could have been his final chance to tell John how he felt, and he had gone for laughs. He knew that doing so would make it easier, but he was beginning to think he was being too gentle with John’s feelings. The tension that hovered over the handshake seemed to indicate that John had been hoping that Sherlock said something more. And the pain that ate at him as he sat in the plane and replayed the moment over was unbearable. No - no matter the cost, he would not make the same mistake twice. John would not leave 221B without knowing how Sherlock really felt, directly from Sherlock’s mouth.

The mantlepiece really was taking a beating. Fortunately, before it surrendered entirely, Sherlock heard a hesitant-but-expectant clearing of the throat behind him. He turned slowly, savoring John Hamish Watson in all his glory. His jumper-wearing, lip-biting, jittery-handed glory. So utterly imperfect, and so completely perfect for Sherlock because of it. When he looked at Sherlock with a crooked smile and a barely-perceptible, “You, always you.” Sherlock could feel his heart melt.

It was never clear to Sherlock who moved first, but a moment later they were together in front of the fireplace, two bodies meeting in a homage to their first stolen embrace on Stag Night. John’s arms wrapped around him, and Sherlock felt a hand slip under the edge of his jacket and shirt and rest along the small of his back, and that one bit of skin on skin contact was enough to both ground him in the moment and set all his nerves on fire simultaneously. He was tearing off John’s blazer (The Date Blazer. Unsurprising.) and making short work of his buttons. After a moment of caressing, John followed suit. All the while they kissed with an air of desperation, trying to get their fill before they were forced apart again.

Once they were both shirtless, Sherlock sank to his knees, bringing John with him. He took a moment to marvel at John’s chest, the patchwork of scars both pre- and post- Sherlock enhancing how attractive, and more important, how real he was. John was really here there were really doing this they had really made it this far. The sheer improbability of the situation was too much for Sherlock and he dropped his head for moment, overwhelmed. He felt a gentle hand on his cheek drawing him up to meet the blue warmth of John’s eyes. “None of that now,” John murmured. “I want to see you.” He didn’t break eye contact as he drew Sherlock back in for a kiss until the very last second when their lips met again, gently and almost reverently.  Until impatience got the best of him and he let out a low, frustrated moan and pulled back, meeting Sherlock’s eye with a more wicked gleam this time. “I want to see all  of you. Right now,” before guiding Sherlock on to his back and divesting him of his trousers and pants.

Sherlock snapped out of his reverie quick enough, following suit, and soon they were both naked, with John stretched out above him.  Sherlock shuttered as he felt John slide into place against him, and he reached down a hand to hold them together. John entwined his fingers with Sherlock’s before they both started to move. It wasn’t enough - Sherlock had really been hoping they would go deeper - and it would be easier with lube, but none of that mattered, because they were together, after so near a miss, and Sherlock didn’t think he could hold out long enough to prepare both of them for more than this, moving together in front of the fireplace of 221B with just the right amount of friction.

He wanted to pretend they had all the time in the world, but they didn’t, and right now this was enough. So Sherlock rocked with John, and with his free hand clung to John’s back hard enough to leave fingerprint bruises he would have to struggle to explain away the next day. He had his face buried in John’s neck, but as their movements became more desperate and less rhythmic, he drew back to look John in the eye. The sheer depth of longing Sherlock saw there when John found his release was enough to drag Sherlock over the ledge with him.

 

* * *

 

Hours later, after they had relocated to Sherlock’s bedroom, Sherlock left John dozing there, a brief respite before he had to gather himself to return to the battleground his flat with Mary had become. Sherlock was again kicking himself. While he was satisfied physically, emotionally he was still distraught; he had once again failed to tell John how he felt. He just _couldn’_ t, not until John was fully and truly _his_. He couldn’t spill his heart in the stolen moments before John had to go back to his sham of a wife. The strain as beginning to take its toll on both of them - from waiting, from holding back, from the disquiet which had settled over them ever since Sherlock stepped off the plane. Sherlock needed to move them forward, to really and truly _end_ this, so they could snap out of the static pace their life had assumed. Jim seemed like a dead end - for all his posturing Sherlock had heard _nothing_ from him beyond one cryptic text. Patience was never one of his strongest attributes, and Sherlock was beginning to see that _he_ was the only person _he_ could count on to find a way out of their current situation.

Sherlock sat at his desk, mind whirling through possible strategies (he found that intimate relations with John acted like a spark plug to his already-hyperactive brain) his eyes fell on the skull with the headphones on the wall. Behind which was a secret compartment, formally the resting place of a pack of his preferred cigarettes, but more recently where he kept the original version of Mary’s _A.G.R.A._ flash drive. His mind drifted back to his original rendezvous with Moriarty...

_You’re right of course, the information is likely worthless, but still handy to have around. Make a double and switch it out with John’s. I’m sure you’ll find an opening amidst all the pillow talk. But that doesn’t really solve your problem, now does it?_

There’s a possibility, of course, that Jim was telling the truth. It was an equally, and even more likely, possibility that Jim was lying, that he thought there was something there, and was trying to convince Sherlock not to look at it (is it a bluff?). Or, Jim knew there wasn’t anything important there, and he was hoping to goad Sherlock into looking at whatever trivial cruelty Mary had put there because he knew Sherlock wouldn’t trust him (or a double bluff?). Or, Jim knew that Sherlock would think he was lying and not look even though there actually _was_ something there, and that’s how Jim decided to hide it from him (or a triple-bluff?). After considering all the options, Sherlock decided that any short term pain was worth new information. After a glance toward the bedroom to reassure himself that John was still asleep, he reached up and swiped the drive from it’s hiding place and fired up his laptop.

When Sherlock clicked on the icon, two folders appeared. His heart twinged when he saw one of them was entitled “To My Dearest John.” His attention was soon captured by the other, entitled “Project Silver Blaze.” He was even more intrigued when _tha_ t folder was guarded by 4 levels of encryption, which had a faint CIA flavor to Sherlock. It took him slightly longer than usual to crack it (3.48 minutes), but when he finally found his way to into the folder, he felt his jaw uncharacteristically start to drop at the contents.

Project Silver Blaze was a covert CIA program to build the perfect undercover operative. It was inspired by the work of Dr. Adam Zullo, and started with a very simple theory: the best undercover agents would be the ones who didn’t know they were undercover at all.

Sherlock glazed over the description of the “rewiring” process (re= mild torture and brainwashing). It was too similar to a tight spot he’d gotten himself into in Odessa a year and a half ago (It didn’t take, though not for lack of trying. Further proof that his mind was superior). At the end of the process, the chosen agent was a blank slate; the perfect canvas to create the perfect spy. They remembered nothing of what had happened to them. They were given new identities and sent out into the world, oblivious to what had transpired. Sherlock glanced at the list of names within a file labeled “Roster:”

E.L. Prentiss

S.M. Reid

N.S. Romanoff

S.N. Bristow

J.M. Haisley

L.T. Salander

J.A. Bourne

P.H. Coulson

C.P. Malone

A.B. Mills

_A.R. Larsen_

A person with much less brainpower than Sherlock could have figured out the significance of the italics of the last name. Sherlock stared at it for a long minute, uncharacteristically taken back by finally learning Mary’s real name, even if he didn’t know what it meant yet. He finally snapped out of it, and turned to the file labeled, “Process.”

In this folder were lots of other folders, each labeled with a different name, the last of which was “Mary Elizabeth Morstan.” The one outlier was entitled “READ HERE FIRST,” and when Sherlock clicked on it, a document of officially-looking instructions appeared. Upon closer inspection, Sherlock realized that it had been augmented later on with personal notations. Engrossed, Sherlock picked up the laptop, settled in his chair and began to learn about Project Silver Blaze and A.R. Larson.

The agents from the Roster went out into the world, strategically placed, and live their nondescript assigned lives. “Silver Blaze” was the key. Out of nowhere, they’d receive an email that looks like spam, “Silver Blaze favorite to win the Crown” “Silver Blaze newest sensation at Sandown!” This triggered the rewiring process. On instinct the agent turned to another folder, marked simply “The Spark.” (re = a condensed version of the brainwashing from before).“The Spark” reminded them of who they really were and where the details of their mission would lie. They went back to the email, and read the description of Silver Blaze’s owner; that was who they would become. A lonely librarian from Surrey who liked Earl Grey and George Clooney? A school teacher with a praise kink in Brighton Beach? A distant member of the royal family? A nurse who hides her tattoo and bakes bread on the weekends? They used time-honored CIA tricks, like using the identity of a still born. Tried and true methods mixed with cutting edge technology to create the ultimate human weapon.

The last word of the email was the last part of the process. It was the trigger that led to their directives. “Red” or “Bees” or “trumpet;” whatever it was, whenever they got a subsequent email with that word in the subject line, they knew to decrypt the email to get their instructions. Their resources. Their plan. Their mark. They built their new lives around whomever they were charged to assassinate. And stored all the information on A.G.R.A. It stood for **Automatic Guerilla Reidentification Analog** , and it was the key to Dr. Zullo’s whole program. It held their past and their present, and led to their future. In a way, the USB became their whole identity.

When the job was done, another email about Silver Blaze appeared, this one more tragic. “Silver Blaze loses shoe, causes collision on the track.” “Silver Blaze stumbles at the finish line.” They were directed back to the Spark and and the second viewing returned to the default personality that had been installed by the agency. Subconsciously waiting for Silver Blaze to appear again.

As Sherlock read on, it became clear that the the majority of the information had been added later. There were subtle variations in syntax that spoke of a different writer. He went back and realized that the background information Project Silver Blaze and the Roster matched this later style. As he reached the last few pages, an image convalesced in his mind of A.R. Larson and how she beat the program.

The agents weren’t supposed to have any memory of their past (other than the brief window when they needed to assume their new identity) and especially their past missions; their plausible deniability was a vital part of the program. But somehow, A.R. Larson found a way to buck the mind control. She started remembering who she was and what had happened to her all the time, not just when she was forced to. And she set out to fill in the blanks of her past.

She had compiled a solid background on the CIA and Project Silver Blaze. Her personal past was much more sketchy. Or she had decided to stop recording it; Sherlock couldn’t tell. American Midwestern upbringing. A girl who very quickly learned to use superior intelligence to get what she wanted. She was smart, skirting on the edge of the law, until a fumbled too-big job put her on the CIA’s radar. She was recruited when she was 16 and entered Project Silver Blaze 3 years later.

She was under for 10 years; Sherlock estimated she started catching on after 4 and began planning her escape. She carefully gathered her information, before making a clean break. Sherlock suspected the CIA didn’t see it coming; they hadn’t anticipated any agent being able to think their way out. Some of the training stuck though, even after she faked her own death; Larson continued to document the new identities she adopted. A.G.R.A. became her twisted version of a diary, and it charted her path through the criminal underworld. FSB. RR. CIO. Even a brief stint with the Patriarca Family. Finally, Moriarty and Mary Elizabeth Morstan and Magnussen. As Sherlock read the details of her last assignment, his growing dread drove him to the other folder. _To My Dearest John_. Sherlock dawdled so long before opening it, he was afraid the real John, actual, tangible, loving John, would wake up. He dove in before he could use that as an excuse. What he saw sickened to him to the extent that he almost didn’t make it to the bathroom in time. He hurried back, in case his retching awake John, tore the vile drive out of his laptop, and fell into his chair, hands steepled, trying to find a way out through this new information, Frustratingly, there didn’t see one. Not in the face of that.

He was so lost in thought he didn’t notice John give him a tender kiss on the cheek as he hurried out the next morning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hah, I look at past me. So idealistic at the end of the last chapter,  _Probably two weeks!_ and laugh, just laugh. So naive.
> 
> I have to apologize to all of my readers, I really did intend that to be the case. But really life, and school, and an internship, and unfathomable technological difficulties got in the way. That being said, I don't want to give you a timeline on when the next chapter is coming. Just know that it definitely  _Is_. This story is in no way shape or form abandoned. I intend to finish it. I just can't give you a timeline at to when (though I can promise it will be shorter than last time, now that I've figured out how to work fic writing into my schedule).
> 
> Re: David being the baby's father. I'm not the only one who's had that idea, and that plot line very much grew out of conversations that happened on Tumblr and elsewhere.
> 
> I know my A.G.R.A. explanation is a little out there. And a little involved. If you have any questions, please feel free to ask. Though I think I'm going to let Mary explain about her past herself.
> 
> The "Roster" will give you a hint into the other movies/books/TV shows I love. None of the names (bar Mary's) are mine, and I'll list where they all come from eventually, but I want to see what you all recognize first.
> 
> A warning for the next chapter; Jim is going to demand his repayment, and is going to get very handsy in the process. Nothing too detailed, but there will be some consent issues. Watch that tags and if those themes are triggering for you, be warned. You should be able to skip over those parts and still understand the gist of the story. 
> 
> That's all for now! Thank you for sticking with me. Come say hi on [Tumblr](http://the-navel-treatment.tumblr.com/) anytime! 


	4. Pawn to c3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Dear Jim, he knows about us._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, all the love to my beta, [Selfie](http://cloisteredself.tumblr.com/).
> 
> THERE ARE CONSENT ISSUES IN THIS CHAPTER. If those things are triggering for you, please skip it. I want as many people as possible to enjoy this story, but to do so in a safe way. 
> 
> If you want to keep reading, but aren't comfortable with a lack of consent in a sexual setting, please message me, either on my Tumblr, or scroll right to the end and leave a comment here. I'll rework this chapter and take out anything that might be triggering. I want my story to be healthy for everyone.

Jim twirled around his suite before he finally came to a stop in front of the floor-length mirror and _ogled_. He cleaned up rather well if he did say so himself. What was it, that tired platitude his public school social worker spewed during yet another _Mr. Moriarty I don’t care if they volunteered, you can’t just do things like that to your classmates_ talk? “The image you project should be that which you intend to be.” Jim assessed his reflection; well-tailored, imposing suit, crisp white shirt, and deep purple tie with tiny red skulls (he’d love the idea so much he kept the designer for months till he made all sorts of color variations). He looked positively _regal_ , which was very good, because Jim intended to be king.

He had no particular place in mind; Jim’s power transcended any geographical bounds. He wanted to be king of _everyone_ , _everywhere_. He was the best and he wanted to be _worshipped_ for it. And he was well on his way; his route to monarchy had thus far gone smoothly. There was one final thing he needed; every King had a Queen by his side. If not his equal, than at least able to keep up. And then, if nothing else, to take the fall should something go wrong. Jim sighed dreamily; what a Queen Sherlock would make (he was so _pretty_ after all). Once he had Sherlock, all would be well. Time to get things moving. Jim looked around the room to check that the stage was set.  He pulled his phone out of his breast pocket and fired off a text. Then, to ensure success, Jim sent two more.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock remained in his chair, a gargoyle in the sitting room of 221b barely recalling the brush of John’s lips across his cheek. He was still trying to figuring a way out of the impending storm gathering around himself and John, but his Mind Palace was caught in a maelstrom being torn apart by the futility of it all. In that state, he wouldn’t have noticed his phone at all if not for the annoyingly familiar tune coming out of his breast pocket

 

_Whether you’re a brother or whether you’re a mother, you’re stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive..._

 

Sherlock had several thoughts at once

(Again. Really, nothing new after all these years?)

(How would he have gotten to my phone?)

(Maybe I don’t have to puzzle my way out all by myself.)

 

_Feel the city breakin’ and everybody shakin’, and we’re stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive._

 

Sherlock disentangled himself from his Mind Palace and fumbled out his phone.

 

**Come and pay.**

**Jim Moriarty x.**

 

Sherlock stilled for a minute, flashed back to another moment, in the same sitting room, that was the start of something. Except them, he had been expecting it; now, he was so deep in John’s misery that he allowed _Jim Moriarty_ of all people to catch him off guard. Sherlock quickly regained his footing and replied.

 

**But of course.**

**When & where?**

 

Sherlock didn’t even realize he was holding his breath until he cut off the Bee Gees once again.

 

**Agatha’s facade crumbled here.**

**Let’s see how yours does**

**Half past**

**Cooper Nez x.**

 

Sherlock glanced at the time stamp on the text, and marveled at Moriarty’s attention to detail. 10 on the dot. Moriarty’s use of “Mary’s” original name meant he had intended for Sherlock to look at the flash drive after all. Sherlock packed any feelings on that development away for later analysis. Now, for the location. As he reread the text, his own voice echoed in his ears...

_Twenty-three and twenty-four Leinster Gardens....the empty houses. They were demolished years ago to make way for the London Underground, a vent for the old steam trains. Only the very front section of the house remains. It’s just a facade. Remind you of anyone, Mary? A facade?_

Sherlock braced himself and narrowed in on his internal map of London, pulling up Leinster Gardens. Looking past 23 and 24, down the end of the street....ah yes! There it was; and the nod to his nickname....Sherlock whirled up, grabbed his coat and scarf, and hurried out onto Baker Street to catch a cab to the hotel.

 

* * *

 

 

Mary eased herself up on the side of the bed and reminisced about the last time she could see her feet. God, she hoped this child was worth all this trouble. A nobel prize winner at the least.

John was in the kitchen, steadfastly playing the game of devoted husband he had thrown himself into lately, with varying success. When John had slipped into bed early that morning, he had placed a kiss on her cheek that said “Of course I fell asleep at the clinic and have definitely not been at my best friend’s flat screwing like rabbits.” John’s belief in his ability to be discreet was pathetically adorable.

 Her phone gave two pings, and as she glanced at it she felt the beginnings of a smile, which blossomed into a full blown smirk as she read the first text.

 

**Showtime**

**An hour more.**

**No contractions now**

**You’ll miss the fun! x**

 

Mary deleted that, and ran her thumb over the message notification from the second text, an unlisted number. Today was going to be a good day.

* * *

 

Sherlock strode into the lobby of the Henry VIII hotel. The picture of self-assurance, even though he felt off-footed. Moriarty anticipating his every move was wrong. Being back on this street was wrong (if he had his way, Leinster Gardens and it’s empty houses and it’s _memories_ would be obliterated from existence). This hotel was wrong (Passable, but much below Moriarty’s standards). And John was not here. It was all wrong _wrong_ WRONG, but Sherlock buried that deep as he tried to ascertain what Moriarty hoped to accomplish with this round of his game.

He leaned against the concierge's desk, “I believe Mr. Nez is expecting me?”

 His bored, entitled drawl usually had more of an effect, but clearly this man was a professional,, because he scanned Sherlock once and said, “Penthouse.”

 Sherlock got in the elevator, and used his last minutes alone to collect himself. Unfortunately, the Henry VIII’s elevator was quite similar to another elevator he had been riding in not to long ago, _not_ alone, and strains of that conversation floated across his brain “... _yes, like I said, human error_...” which Sherlock fervently hoped was not a sign from some unnamed deity that he was walking into a similar disaster. But it was too late, because the lift stopped, and there was only one door, ajar, and Sherlock steeled himself, because there really could be anything behind that door, and after a moment, strode forward and walked into....

 Sentiment. Literally, it looked like all the amorous feelings of the population of London had been solidified somehow and regurgitated into a hotel room. The walls and carpeting were red; the ceiling, light pink with _cherubs_ , and there was intricate, bright white crown molding where the two met. There were candles placed strategically throughout the room, and rose petals strewn haphazardly. There was, well what was typically called a bed, but more adapt at that moment was a mountain of plush and lace. There was also a rich red-velvet high back chair, and on the table next to it two glasses and a bottle of champagne. Sherlock was caught somewhere between vomiting and laughing as the hue of the room assaulted his senses.

 Two things happened at once; Jim Moriarty walked out of what must be the ensuite bathroom with a hand behind his back, and Sherlock’s internal calendar realized what the date was, a trivial fact that had gotten forgotten in the blur of being _back_ ,  and he finally decided on laughter.

 “Sorry it’s a bit over the top, couldn’t help myself.” Jim stalked up to Sherlock before stopping an arm’s length away and holding out his prize, a heart-shaped candy box embellished with a skull. “So, will you, _dear_ Sherlock, be my Valentine?” Jim stared up at Sherlock through his eyelashes, but it’s when he started batting them that Sherlock lost his internal battle, and the chuckles turned into full-blown laughter.

“I’m sorry, what?” He laugh at Jim, while still trying to detect his play was. Simultaneously, his mind drifted back to the previous evening. _Valentine’s Day. That much time has gone by and I couldn’t even tell. Valentine’s Day. Irrelevant previously, but maybe that’s why John seemed so sad...._

“Wrong.” With one word, Jim regained Sherlock’s attention, and the mood in the room shifted from light-heartedly flirtatious to tense and predatory.

“Excuse me?” Sherlock still hadn’t figured out Jim’s play.

“You heard me. Wrong. Wrong answer, Sherlock love. The _only possible_ response you should have to that question is _Yes of course darling_ , and then a bit of groveling.” Jim tossed the candy box aside, and stepped until he was directly in Sherlock’s space.

“And why would I do that?” Sherlock tilted his head down to keep his eyes on Jim, to try and ascertain what the man was thinking, but Jim was good, better than Sherlock even, at keeping his thoughts locked in his head.

“Because, my dear,” Jim replied as he circled around Sherlock, eyes roaming every inch of his body, “I said I expected payment. And this is it. You. Fawning. Over. Me. This is just a _brief_ interlude in our game and I intend to enjoy every moment. You’re not the only one who’s susceptible to _sentiment_.”

On _sentiment_ , Jim leaned forward and licked a stripe up the back of Sherlock’s neck, causing Sherlock to violently flinch forward. “And what makes you think I would agree to that? However pathetic you may think I am, I have not sunk to those depths yet, thank you.”

Jim did a quick about face so he was in front of Sherlock again and began advancing forward, forcing Sherlock to stumble backward. He reached forward to caress Sherlock’s lapel, and when Sherlock flinched again, Jim’s caress turned into a claw, and Sherlock could feel his nails digging in through multiple layers of fabric. He began speaking, advancing forward, keeping his eyes locked on Sherlock the whole time.

“Lovely moulding in this room, isn’t it? Really adds to the effect. So detailed. And you can hide _so many things_ in such details. Things like....pinhole cameras, for example. Now, I admit, such cameras serve two purposes. First, I plan to relive today as _often_ as possible.” Jim hesitated just a moment, to top that statement off with a lascivious wink.

“But second, pinhole cameras are just so _convenient_  for broadcasting images, wherever I want them, at the drop of a hat.” That sentence Jim punctuated with a jaunty finger-snap.

Sherlock found himself backed up against the red velvet wingback chair, and leaned back to get as far away as possible from Jim. “Oh really, planning another nationwide message, are you? I’m sure we’d make quite the advert for the holiday.”

Jim stopped moving and smiled, a smile that slithered to the core of Sherlock’s soul and took root. Jim unhooked his hand from Sherlock’s lapel and caressed Sherlock’s cheek, and Sherlock let him, because he _knew_  what was coming next, and he felt his knees start to go out before Jim even spoke the words.

“Have _mercy_ , darling, I had no _idea_ you were such an exhibitionist. I myself am far too _jealous_ to let all of London have you. No I had only one recipient in mind. A certain loyal pet you’ve recently started letting sleep in your bed.”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes, slowly, and absorbed Jim’s words. He tried to think rationally, but he was stuck; held in place in the chair by Jim’s hand on his cheek and Jim’s _vile_ words in his ear. All that came out was, “You’re bluffing.”

Jim’s other hand had come up and started caressing Sherlock’s chest now, unbuttoning his shirt, and Sherlock wanted to throw him off, he _did,_ but he was paralyzed, motionless as events coalesced around him.

Jim continued, “You know about the snipers. You chased them down. killed _almost_ all of them with your bare hands. Wasn’t bluffing then. What makes you think I’m bluffing now?”

Sherlock swallowed hard, eyes still closed, and tried again, injecting sarcasm he didn’t feel into his words in hopes of inspiring his limbs to _move_ , “John....wouldn’t believe it. He knows I _despise_ this holiday.”

Jim had finished with the buttons and pushed Sherlock’s shirt aside, running his fingernails across Sherlock’s bare chest, and it was _wrong_ and Sherlock felt _sick_ , and Sherlock’s eyes were open now, staring off into the middle distance, but he was still _stuck_ and letting this happen.

Jim pulled back a bit to force Sherlock to meet his eyes, while he kept his fingers moving. “Really? After _everything_  you’ve put him through? After the Fall? After forcing him to watch? after _Mary_? You still think he would give you the benefit of the doubt? _Really_?” Jim cocked his head and removed his hand from Sherlock’s cheek to wag a finger

“John’s never been one to look beneath the surface for _true_ meaning, but I don’t think he’d have any incentive to now, do you?

Sherlock wanted to reply, to shout “ _Yes_ of _course_ it’s _JOHN_!” But if Sherlock were being really honest with himself, he wasn’t sure. After everything. After dying and coming back and loving him, physically, finally, and t _hen_ forcing him back towards Mary, Sherlock was afraid that _this_ , not only knowing that Sherlock had involved Jim, had gone to him for help, but seeing _this_ , the physical manifestation of Sherlock involving Jim in their lives again, would finally break the bounds of John’s loyalty.

Jim could tell he’d won by Sherlock’s silence, and he leaned in again, his mouth hovering inches from Sherlock’s left ear, and whispered, “So, Sherlock dear, how deep have we fallen _now_?

Sherlock closed his eyes again. At _any other time_ he could get out of this. He could meet Jim in this battle of wits and force a draw, if not an all-out victory. But not now. Not after Magnussen and the Tarmac and having John, physically, and so soon after discovering A.G.R.A. and _My dearest John_. The weight of it, of everything, was too much for Sherlock to shake off. His Mind Palace was flooding, was drowning in water, and somewhere mired in the muck at the bottom, was a way out of this, but he wasn’t finding it today. He might win the war, but this battle was lost, so better to get through it, and focus on things that really mattered.

He nodded.

Jim lowered his mouth to Sherlock’s ear and stuck his tongue in, obscenely mouthing at it, before murmuring, “What was that?”

It took Sherlock long moments, punctuated by vicious thrusts of Jim’s tongue, to finally get out, “Yes, Of ..... course.. Darling.”

This, this was much worse than the last time he had been in an elevator.

 

* * *

 

John bustled into their shared bedroom, tray laden with pancakes and tea and juice and a single rose, with a “Happy Valentine’s Day” which would have fit in nicely at a funeral.

Mary took in her husband. He was adorable, even when he was miserable. And she really didn’t mind when he was miserable, as long as she was the cause of that misery. Which wasn’t the case at the moment. Oh well. Soon.

He set the tray down with a kiss on her cheek. “When you’re done, we could....you know....if you wanted to.” John nodding at their bed with a look that was begging Mary to say no.

Mary was tempted, very tempted, to say yes as a sort of penance, for John, but she had a role to play. She closed her eyes and called up the right expression; concern, slight edge of panic, but not too much, because Mary Elizabeth Watson was not a hysterical woman. Ahh the look from the wedding, when they were trying to save Sholto’s life. That should suffice. 3 2 1...

Mary opened her eyes and sprang to her feet (well, as close to sprang as very pregnant women get).

“No, John, actually, I just got this text! Unlisted number, but it sounds like trouble!”

John narrowed his eyes, as though trying to ascertain how honest she was being. Mary put on a semi-desperate smile while thinking,  _Not on your life, boy scout_ , and as John began to read the text, she could see his suspicion of her fall away.

 

**KiNg HeNrY’s LoVeRs LoSt ThEiR hEaDs**

**HoPeFulLy ShErLoCk HaS mOrE lUcK!**

**WaY uP hIgH**

**DoWn At ThE eNd Of LeInStEr StReEt**

**At ThE hEaRtBrEaK hOtEl**

 

John looked at Mary, and just for a second, caught her off guard. “Why, why do the messages always come through _you_??”

She recovered quickly, “Probably because of those old connections. That’s water under the bridge now, sounds like Sherlock’s gotten in trouble again.”

John paced and clenched his fist, as expected.”No surprise there, but what does this mean? Why are they quoting Elvis? Surely he hasn’t gone to the States.”

“No, but Leinster....Leinster Gardens. I remember, the night that you” - Mary made sure to take a moment to appear to compose herself - “confronted me, I remember walking by a hotel. I think it had Henry in the name.”

John looked at the phone again, “That certainly explains the beginning...and “up high” could mean the Penthouse suite....” John trailed off and squinted before blurring into to motion and reaching for his coat, “Oy this message was sent over an hour ago! Who _knows_ what could have happened to him in that time!”

In his rush to get to the door, John didn’t even question _why_ it had taken so long for Mary to receive the text.

Mary followed John to the door, and he placed a quick kiss on her cheek, “If you haven’t heard from me in an hour, call Greg, have him send back up,” before he hurried out to start the car.

Mary nodded - with no intention of following those directions - and watched as the car drove away. Ahh John H. Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers . So pathetically, adorably predictable. And so very soon entirely hers.

Mary headed back to the bedroom to enjoy her pancakes.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock sat in the bright red, velvet, high back chair, in the Penthouse suite of the Henry VI hotel and thought, not for the first time that day, that he had miscalculated the situation.

Jim was hunched over him with one hand in his hair. But it wasn’t caressing or playing with his curls the way John would; Moriarty’s hand felt like a spider crawling down his scalp. Moriarty’s other hand was worse, it was latched onto his hip close to his groin, as his mouth attacked Sherlock’s neck, leaving a choker of bruises that Sherlock would be at a loss to explain.

Sherlock was on the verge of a panic attack. As a rule, he didn’t like people touching him, didn’t even like people to come _near_ him, unless absolutely necessary (and by people he meant, everyone but John). And being like this, being so at the mercy of someone who was absolutely not John, put him in a younger mindspace. In a time when the most important thing, the thing he would do anything for, was the drugs, and he learned very quickly that his body was his most precious commodity. Sitting in this posh suite, he could very well be in a grimy estate flat, trading a quickie for his next hit...God he really was going to hyperventilate.

Sherlock switched gears, to try and calm himself down, to regain control, and tried to imagine that it was John all over him instead. That worked for awhile until he felt Jim pull back and realized he was staring at his crotch with glee saying, “ _See_ , I _knew_ we would get there eventually,” and he realized that he was aroused and God he was not going to make it, but it didn’t matter, because the door of the suite was opening, and Sherlock Holmes felt the floor drop out of his world, felt himself crash through rock bottom and keep going.

John Watson come through the door of the Penthouse Suite of the Henry VIII hotel.

Sherlock was stuck, but Jim danced away from him like small boy with his hand in the cookie jar, and smirked at John.  “Ah Dr. Watson! We were just celebrating how _perfectly_ we orchestrated my glorious return! Weren’t expecting guests, but I for one am _always_ up for a little _menage a trois_.” Jim turned to Sherlock expectantly.

Sherlock looked at John, and saw through John’s eyes; Sherlock, tousled, marked, turned-on, and very much _involved_ with Jim Moriarty. Sherlock looked at John and saw The Look. The Look from The Fall, and the Facade, and The Shooting. The Look he had been trying to avoid on the tarmac. Sherlock’s throat worked a few times, but he said nothing, powerless once again as he watched John’s entire being crumble.

With a swift nod, John broke their eye contact, turned and left. Sherlock wished he had slammed the door on his way out, to let Sherlock know he was still alive somewhere in there, but John closed it gently, as though apologizing for the imposition.

The room was still for a moment, until Sherlock turned to regard Moriarty.

“You planned this.”

“Knew you’d get there in the end.”

Sherlock jumped from his seat, disgusted with himself, with Jim, with the whole situation. He got as far away from Jim as possible, while still maintaining eye contact.

“ _That_ was not part of the deal we arranged,” Sherlock managed to bite out, though the violently ill feeling was back.

“Oh Sherlock, _darling_ ,” Jim began to slowly circle the perimeter of the room, forcing Sherlock to follow him in a strange, counter-clockwise waltz, “what makes you think my arrangement was ever with _you_?”

Jim folded his hands behind his back, like a professor explaining a difficult bit of theory, “You see, as a matter of business, when two people come to me regarding the same problem, I deal with them in the order of their arrival, and well,” Jim nodded his head sadly, “She beat you to it.”

“....She?” _She_ could only be one person.

“Yes, “Mary.” Jim seemed to enjoy air quotes.

“You see after you were dead, John Watson was finally hers. Maybe a little damaged, but still, hers. And then you had the audacity to _come back_.”

Jim paused to once again wag his finger at Sherlock, “You _really_ shouldn’t have interrupted her engagement. That woman holds a grudge like no other.”

“As soon as she saw the look John gave you, she knew she had a problem. She immediately reopened our channel of communication. I was a little put out about her disobedience, initially, but, she proposed a situation where we would both get what we wanted. Her, John. And me, _you_. And when you were on the table, Dear Sherlock, I just couldn’t say no.”

“So we tried to keep you off balance. With skip codes and telegrams and bonfires. Point at Magnussen, but not entirely, to try and get you invested in the game again. But you wouldn’t play alone. Wouldn’t fall in love with my games again. Instead, you got invested in _wedding planning_. And then!” Here, Moriarty began waving his arms almost manically.

“And THEN, somehow, you _made. it. worse_. You actually started _sleeping_ with John. That was when I started making plans to come back to our fair city, because I was afraid of what she might do, and you know how much it takes to scare _me_.”

Jim stopped again to lock eyes with Sherlock, “You know, you surviving that shot had much more to do with your _luck_ than her _precision_ ,” before resuming his pace.

“But it worked! Confronting her sent you so off balance you worked your way into my web. Then, we just had to orchestrate a little catalyst. This did _very_ nicely. We both have what we want. John is making his way back to Mary; what she did is small potatoes compared to _your_ betrayal, and I have you _all. to. myself_.”

Jim walked up to the side table and deftly swiped a glass of champagne. “I’ll give you tonight to lick your wounds, but I expect you in sparkling form tomorrow morning for round two. And if you’re not, Sherlock, well, there are _still_ those who can pay.”

Jim turned around, appearing to be finished with the conversation. “Oh, and Sherlock,” Jim paused, looked back over his shoulder, and waited until Sherlock’s eyes were locked with his to continue. “Of _course_ I knew you were in the hospital the first time. Didn’t you get my rose?”

With a smirk, Jim sauntered into the ensuite and shut the door, and left Sherlock standing in the middle of the Penthouse Suite of the Henry VII hotel, where his life had once again shattered, this time seemingly beyond repair.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, notes.
> 
> Henry VIII's nickname was "Old Copper Nose," because he incorporated more copper than silver into his coinage, and devalued it. Elvis's song is "Heartbreak Hotel."
> 
> \---
> 
> My Timeline in this story is:
> 
> The Tarmac scene takes place in early February, which means there is about 6 weeks between Sherlock shooting Magnussen and the Tarmac scene. This works in this story, because it leaves the Government plenty of time to figure out what to do with Sherlock, and for Jim to come taunt him.
> 
> \---
> 
> So, the way that my law school works, I have finals and final papers and a trial coming up towards the end of February. So, while I'm trying to churn out another chapter before I have to disappear into the library, it is a very real possibility that Dear Jim will not update again until March! I'm sorry! The real world sucks! But it is most definitely not abandoned. 
> 
> Also, the next two chapters will be a tad on the shorter side, because they cover the same period of time, but both contain big events that standalone (I think this fic is about at the halfway point).
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me! Comments are little pick-me-ups as my quarter drags on! Or come say hi on [Tumblr](http://the-navel-treatment.tumblr.com/) (same name, more punctuation!)


	5. Knight to c3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Dear Jim, I don't know what to do. Where do I go when my whole life is falling apart?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of thanks to my beta, Selfie, and to everyone who has stuck with me this far!

Sherlock leaned back against the hotel room door, chest heaving as though he had just been running for his life. In actuality, he had just stood there, and allowed his life to fall apart around him.  He had been unbalanced that morning when he received Jim’s first text. But now, after Jim’s advances, and the revelation that there had once _again_ been a plan that he had been unable to detect, and _part_  of that plan was to push him and John apart, and that part of the plan seemed to be a success, Sherlock was devastated. Well, as devastated as Sherlock could be.

Due to his cultivation and perfection of the Mind Palace technique, Sherlock was able to almost expertly divorce himself from his emotions. To select a room, lock them up, and _keep_ them there, out of the way, until he was ready to deal with them. This allowed him to get on with the situation at hand without weighing himself down with needless self reflection. People often interpreted his disconnect as cold and cruel, but Sherlock saw it as necessary self-protection.   The ability manifested itself best under moments of duress. It had only failed a precious few times; all notably taking place in John’s presence, and John was definitely nowhere near Sherlock at the moment. So Sherlock packed up all the feelings - the doubt, the hurt, the loss, the anger at Moriarty and the pain of watching John walk away - and locked them up in the attic until he could deal with them, then looked at his situation with fresh eyes.

But the more he thought, the more those _feelings_ began to creep out under the door and into his head. Because if he was lost this morning, now he was completely disoriented. All of this, all of this had been to try and protect John, and he had failed, miserably, to the point that it was unlikely that John would ever consent to see him again... _No don’t go there, no time for that right now, don’t think THINK about that...._

But Sherlock paused, and replayed his thoughts back, slowly. This whole time had had been trying to protect John and that had completely backfired. Maybe he needed to stop, and instead work from the assumption that John didn’t _need_ that protection (Sherlock knew John was capable, that’s one of the things that attracted him in the first place). Maybe Sherlock needed to facilitate John’s access to knowledge, instead of shielding him from it. Even if it was going to hurt. If John was going to be hurt anyway, better to get it all out at once. John was headed back into Mary’s arms, and he needed to know _exactly_ what he was walking into.

Sherlock did some quick calculations. Usually, after an emotional upheaval, John’s first step was to take a walk. Clear his mind, get his emotions under control a bit.  The bigger the upheaval, the longer the walk; the scene in the hotel room merited an hour or two, at least. Factoring in the time it would take him to get back to his flat, Sherlock should be able to pick up what he needed, and still beat John home. He trusted that John’s anger and natural curiosity would lead him to the necessary information. It was likely Moriarty would have some sort of surveillance on John’s flat - Sherlock could take care of that too.

His decision made, Sherlock placed a phone call before disappearing into London, into action.

* * *

Mary finished her breakfast.  John really was a good cook when he put his mind to it. And he would have much more of his mind to devote to cooking, and seeing to the house, and generally devoting himself to the wellbeing of Mary and their daughter now that his little tête -à-tête with Sherlock was definitively over. Mary checked the clock; given Moriarty’s timing - and Jim was nothing if not punctual - John’s “other” life should be quite done by now.  Mary dropped her dishes in the sink and shrugged into the red coat which no longer buttoned over her belly.

She knew John (better than he knew himself, and even better than Sherlock with his incessant observing). She knew he would need his space. She checked the tracker on John’s phone and saw he was still doing laps at the park near their home, but Mary could tell he was close to wearing himself out.  So she would go out, run some errands, stretch her legs, and give him the run of the house to get his thoughts in order.  She needed his mind clear when she came back; clear and accepting. Open to the fact that his knight in shining armor was in fact a queen. Mary hummed to herself as she grabbed her bags and strolled out the door. What was an hour and a half when they had the rest of their lives together?

* * *

Moran sighed, and rearranged his position to get at the rhododendron digging into his back. He was not getting paid enough for this, he was not. He was not paid enough to be crouching, outside Mary’s house, in the middle of winter, 12 minutes (exactly 12; couldn’t be more or less or she would know) after receiving a text for her. Moran was not getting paid enough for this whole day, really, not enough for the past 10 years of his life, since Jim Moriarty walked into it.

Moran was a simple man. He appreciated simple things. Like gunpowder and kerosene and what happened when you mixed them together. He liked knowing how to cause pain and all the perks that came with it. He liked quieting down, letting the world drop away until it was just him and the target at the end of his scope. Moran liked all those things, and Moriarty promised him easy access. And it was, all in all, a good arrangement. But sometimes the sheer lengths that Jim would go (and Mary, once she was in the picture) almost, _almost_ caused Moran to rethink his situation (Not that he would do anything about it. Except in his head).

Take his current predicament. Moran couldn’t wrap his head around it. Mary wanted John, and Moriarty wanted Sherlock. They were both more than capable of using sheer force to get what they wanted. More than capable. But no, no that would be too easy. Instead they had started on this frankly ridiculous course of action, which started with Moran becoming “David” with his stupid ties, endured through a frankly awful evening with Mary in a Brighton motel, and ended with Moran (not Moriarty, or Mary, Moran) crouched in the dirt in the middle of February, waiting for John to get home, and making sure he stayed put so that Mary could sweep in and save the day. How convoluted was that? Moran glowered as he rubbed his hands together for warmth; many, many things were going to get blown up when this was all over. He just was not paid enough.

* * *

Sherlock leaned casually against an oak across the yard, watching Moran ruminate in his misery. He had finished setting the scene long before Moran took up his post. Now, once John was safely inside, he could remove the distraction, and let off a bit of steam. He guessed John would be long gone before Mary made her reappearance. Which would leave him to settle the score that she started in Magnussen’s apartment. Sherlock allowed himself a small smile - his day might just be taking a turn for the better.

* * *

John came around another lap along the perimeter of the park around the corner from his house.  He had already worked his way through Hyde Park, Battersea, and Morden Hill. He wanted to keep going, _needed_ to keep moving, to expel the images that had taken root in his brain. But his feet were sore, his leg ached, and he felt he was going to have to admit defeat. No amount of walking, no number of footsteps, was going to erase Jim Moriarty’s hands caressing Sherlock’s chest, his tongue lavishing Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock looking like….. Sherlock looking like he did when it was John’s hands and John’s tongue. Like his glorious brain was offline in a state of bliss. For Jim Moriarty to achieve that same look, for his hands to touch the same skin that John’s had not even a day ago……no. Stop. John was not doing this. He _wasn’t_. The last time he had cried in public had been due to Sherlock, to his death, and he wasn’t going to give the man that satisfaction again. No, John Watson had more pride left than that.  He squared his shoulders, ignored his leg, and headed for home.

But as John walked his thoughts ran him down. How could Sherlock have let Jim Moriarty of all people, that close? Why was he near Jim Moriarty at all? (The oddity of Jim Moriarty being alive never crossed John’s mind. He’d accepted a reality where death was a temporary state). Why would Sherlock do that? What would drive him there? John thought they were happy. He knew it was far from ideal. Stolen moments, sneaking around, spending the night in each other’s arms a rarity. But for John It had been enough. The desire that had stewed beneath his skin for nearly 5 years had been given an outlet.  And for John, in this moment, it had been enough.

Though John had to admit, it had been harder on Sherlock. When John left 221B, he had a (lying, assassin) wife to go home to. Not great, but the house wasn’t empty. And he had baby preparations to distract him. When John left 221B, Sherlock was alone. Alone with that great mind that spun itself out of control without a bumper. He was effectively on house arrest following the incident at Appledore, so not even cases could serve as a distraction. John didn’t miss the sudden clench of Sherlock’s fingers every time he pulled away, quickly smothered by a sarcastic remark. Sherlock had it worse they he did.

But John had offered! When Sherlock had been recovering (the second time) they talked about it. John was more than willing, eager even, to walk away from Mary. To well and truly be Sherlock’s, and declare it to the world. Of course, he wanted to be part of his daughter’s life, but he thought he had a fairly good argument (part time GP versus on the run assassin – he liked his chances). Now that everyone (Mycroft) was on to Mary, now that she had caught their attention, John was fairly confident that she wouldn’t’ be able to slip away. John was ready to leave.

But Sherlock said no. Wouldn’t hear of it. John had to stay with Mary. It was the safest place, in the eye of the storm. For awhile, they’d have to be covert. Moments here and there. Whatever they could manage. And then someday, someday they would be together, fully. Someday. Not now. But it was going to be fine. It was all fine.

 _Clearly not_. Not if it pushed Sherlock back to Jim Moriarty. Into the claws of the spider. Clearly, something had gone very wrong. John tried to rationalize it. Maybe this was part of the game. Part of the “someday” Sherlock was planning. Maybe Jim Moriarty was a part of the plan, a necessary obstacle that had to be overcome. Maybe Sherlock had to play along, to get what they needed. Maybe it was all an act….maybe….

But a memory of his own voice drifted through John’s head. _I hope you’ll be very happy together_. An image – the look in Sherlock’s eyes, all those years ago, as he contemplated Moriarty’s first puzzle. Intrigued, entranced, _infatuated_. That was Moriarty’s whole point – that he and Sherlock were perfect together. That they were the only ones in the world that could understand. And as much as John tried to smother that thought, as much as John tried to convince himself that no, he understood Sherlock, he knew what Sherlock needed and could make him _happy_ , dammit, the doubt took root in his head, and it was hard to refute after what he’d just walked in on.

And wasn’t that just perfect. The two people he had ever fallen for; a psychopathic ex-assassin and a sociopathic consulting detective who cheated on him with an even bigger psychopath. If that didn’t prove John Watson was fundamentally flawed as a person, he didn’t know what did. Those sorts of things just didn’t happen to someone who had their life together. And, even better, _he_ had destroyed both of those relationships, by not being able to keep his vows to Mary (whatever she had done, they had said _vows,_ and that should mean something to John) and by not fulfilling Sherlock’s needs. He was the problem, _him_. This whole situation, everything, Mary, the baby, Sherlock, Moriarty, all entirely his fault. A small part of John felt he deserved his current situation, and the fact he could see no way out of the misery that descended on him when he ran from the hotel seemed like poetic justice.

John fumbled with his keys on the stoop.  He really hoped Mary wasn’t home. He didn’t have the energy to fake it. He knew he’d gone over the top lately, trying to “play” the perfect husband, but he couldn’t help himself.  The guilt over his moments with Sherlock – not out of love for Mary, she’d put that down with a bullet many months ago – but because of the _vows_ he took that he was blatantly breaking, because he wasn’t yet _allowed_ to leave…. That guilt was going to manifest in some way, and it was happening in foot rubs and work around the house and breakfast in bed. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to touch her, in any more intimate way, since learning the full scope of her involvement with Sherlock’s injuries, but he could do this.  He was sure Mary had caught on to what he was doing, but his actions assuaged his guilt. Though now, he couldn’t put the effort in. It was really all about him, his needs, because he was so _selfish_.

Such as John was about to walk across the threshold, the hair on the back of his neck prickled. His soldier’s sense, long dormant, but getting more use of late, told him he was being watched. He quickly scanned the yard, but saw nothing, just the dead grass, barren trees and forlorn rhododendron. He stared, but nothing moved, and his shoulders slumped. Great, just great. Alone and selfish and now _paranoid_. He was ten for ten today.

At least Mary wasn’t home. Small mercies. John shut the door, and immediately headed to make tea.  He never quite made it there, because his mobile rang.

John didn’t recognize the number, but at this point, didn’t think it could possibly make his day any worse, so he answered.

“Hullo?”

“Hello, John Watson?”

“Yes.”

“This is Dr. Morrison. From the clinic.”

Morrison, Morrison. John ran the name through his head. It didn’t ring immediately familiar. It wasn’t one of the other GP’s at his practice, of that he was sure.  John didn’t think he’d met him at an event or that they’d been at Bart’s together. Morrison, Morrison. John racked his brain, trying to come up with an answer, until suddenly, he remembered… 

He and Mary, they had gotten very serious very quickly. A little too quickly for John’s liking, if he was being honest (Though that made sense now, The urgency with which Mary always treated their relationship). They had only been together a month or two before they started to have Talks. About living arrangements. And marriages. And children.

Mary was particularly adamant about the children. And she was worried, given both their ages. So one day, entirely before John was ready for it, she had talked him into going for a consultation. With a fertility specialist. Just to hear all their options, should they get married and should they decide kids were something they wanted to try for. John had been apprehensive, but Mary talked him into it. She made it a date, drinks after and the promise of an eventful evening, if he would just go to this first. With one of  those smiles – the ones that crinkled her nose, which she kept in reserve for when she wanted something – Mary had talked John into the clinic, and an appointment with….

“Ah yes, Dr. Morrison. The fertility specialist. It’s been so long since we met with you, I forgot.”

And that was true. John had sat through the meeting, half listened to the options, but mostly just nodded along to Mary’s enthusiasm, and mostly concentrated on the evening to follow. After the meeting, the children talk had died down, though not the other Talks. In fact, John couldn’t even remember deciding that children were something they wanted, at least not consciously. One night, after he had had proposed, Mary threw the condoms and her birth control away and said, “Let’s see what happens.” And that had been that, till the wedding, and the deductions that…. _Sherlock_ had-

Dr. Morrison had continued talking through John’s reverie, and John attempted to refocus on what he was saying. 

“Yes, well, terribly sorry about that. I’m not sure exactly what happened. We got an email today, that our system had gone done, and it was only going back through the records that we realized we’d never gotten back to you with the test results.”

 

His words froze John. “Test results? No, we just came in for a consultation.”

John heard shuffling paper. “Yes, I see my initial notes. But then your wife came in later that week to drop off samples.”

Several thoughts hit John at once. First, and most importantly, is the fact that Mary was not his wife when they went for their consultation. Second, was that he _knew_ how the test for male infertility was done. And he had to admit – they were still using….protection at that point – so it was possible. As much as the image of Mary digging through their garbage to find a used condom so she could have it tested to see if John was infertile without John knowing jarred with his original image of wife, but then so did her shooting Sherlock. Finally, he had the thought that test results were really a moot point.

He didn’t want to drag this innocent bystander into the shitstorm that was his life currently, so he humoured him. “Oh yes, of course, forgot about that.”

Awkward throat clearing echoed through the phone.  “This is a bit unprecedented. Usually, I wouldn’t give these types of results over the phone, but given the length of the delay it seems only right to get you all the information....”

Dr. Morrison trailed off into more apologies. John’s left hand clenched into a fist and there was a roaring in his ears. He closed his eyes slowly, and he _knew_ , he just knew because nothing, _nothing_ could go right for him, what Dr. Morrison was about to say.

“....Well I might as well get right down to it. I’m sorry, John, but you’re infertile, you can’t have children. Now, I know this isn’t what you were hoping for, but there are....”

Dr. Morrison continued talking, about options and decisions and plans, but John didn’t hear him. The phone dropped to his floor. John Watson, who thought he was standing on rock bottom, felt the floor gave way beneath him. He was overwhelmed by the sheer weight of it, and he staggered into the wall to regain a sense of balance. It was as he wheeled around to regain his equilibrium that he saw it.

 

* * *

Moran’s mood had worsened considerably. He knew John was inside, and it seemed he’d had plenty of time to wail and weep. He was sure John was _more than ready_ for Mary to sweep in and save the day, but Her Highness was taking her time. Typical.

Moran was so caught up in plotting both John and Mary’s (and Moriarty’s for good measure) slow and violent death, he didn’t even notice who crept up behind.

Sherlock leaned against a stray pine, and considered the man fidgeting in front of him.

_Sebastian Moran. Formally of the SAS. Sniper with admirable accuracy. Achieved the rank of Colonel, if I’m not mistaken, which I’m not, before being dishonourably discharged when they found out you were getting creative in your choice of targets._

Sherlock drummed his fingers against his lips as he deduced. Even if it was internal, it was still nice having an audience.

_Did a tour of Europe’s more prominent crime families, bouncing around when your itchy finger got the better of you. Eventually, ran out of options, and were in a bit of a tight stop until Jim Moriarty swooped in to save the day. Gave you more targets than you knew what to do with, and gave you the room to dispose of them in any manner your imagination dreamed up, something your other employers never understood. You took on more and more responsibility. Which sniper were you? John? Couldn’t be.  Mrs. Hudson?_

Moran twitched and Sherlock stilled, but no, the man was lost in his own self-centered misery.

_No....Lestrade. You would relish the chance to go after a uniform. Then, with Moriarty’s little....vacation, he put you in a most uncomfortable position. That of David Smith. God even the name is boring. And you had a frankly awful sense of fashion. But that wasn’t the worst thing, was it?_

Sherlock decided, enjoyable as the easy deductions were, he was wasting precious time. He pushed himself off the tree.

“Shouldn’t the Tiger of Arabia be a little less pathetic?”

Moran turned around, but was caught off balance and ended up tangled in the dirt. Sherlock caught the question in his glare.

“Sebastian Moran, sniper, arsonist, explosion extraordinaire, stuck as David Smith who was in love with Mary Morstan who had an ordinary, boring, life for over two years. And just when you thought that was it, that you’d go _insane_ from the monotony, Mary got in touch with you. Moriarty was returning. You were going to get your old life back. But first, a favor. She needed, well not you, but your... _genetic material_.”

Moran slowly rose, his eyes locked on Sherlock.

“She turned the great Sebastian Moran into a _stud_. And she had Moriarty’s _blessing_ to do that. It’s why you’re kneeling in the dirt right now while she’s out shopping for your _child’s_ nursery. Oh how the mighty have fallen; as I said, pathetic.”

Sherlock waited. Given Moran’s personality and psychological profile, he was braced for an attack. But Moran just started chuckling as he began to rise. Sherlock shifted his center of gravity, preparing for whatever Moran could throw at him. But Moran just leaned back, arms crossed, with an appraising look on his face. Unexpected, but still workable.

“Correct, Mr. Holmes, correct on all counts! But I knew you would be. You’ve already shown me you’re a psychopath, or did you forget?”

Moran was so caught up in his postulating he didn’t realize that Sherlock’s subtle movements were a coordinated effort.

“You’re smarter than me. That’s fine. You’re all smarter than me. That’s bloody WONDERFUL. But Mary and Moriarty, for all their brains, still need me. I’m still here. Because, Mr. Holmes, when it comes down to this, with none of your toys or your tools, with no time for your brains, just you and me, when it comes down to this, what matters is muscle. And in THAT category, Mr. Holmes, I still WI---”

Moran, fully caught up in his self righteous monologue, failed to notice Sherlock’s fist connecting with jaw until he was too late. He also failed to notice the well placed kick behind his knee, which brought him down, and by the time Sherlock used the trunk of the dreaded rhododendron to knock him out, Moran was too far gone to have any opinion on the matter.

And then, because he couldn’t help himself, and his day really needed a pick me up, Sherlock paused over Moran before going for his zipties and said, “It has nothing to do with your _quantity_ of muscle, you imbecile, and _everything_ to do with how you use it.”

* * *

John stood motionless, Dr. Morrison still chattering on the phone, his eyes glued to his coffee table. More specifically, the _skull_ on his coffee table. The skull which had not been on his coffee table when he left that morning. The skull that _definitely_ had a home somewhere else. A very comfortable 221b-style home.

John moved slowly over until he was standing directly in front of it. He knew he should be suspicious. He _knew_ he should be angry, mistrustful. He _knew_ he would be entirely justified to pick it up and smash it against the wall. John knew all of those things, but he also _knew_ that Sherlock, despite his actions, always had John’s best interest at heart. All evidence to the contrary. St. Bart’s Rooftop. His marriage. The truth about who shot him. Convincing John to go back. Appledore. The tarmac. Everything Sherlock had done had been an aborted attempt at keep John safe. If pressed, John couldn’t explain his faith in Sherlock Holmes, he had tried many times in those two years, and since, and he couldn’t put it in words that would make sense to anyone else. And he was struggling to find a way that .... liaisons with Jim Moriarty could have his best interests at heart, but still, he _hoped_.

As he reached for the skull, another memory floated through his head. Sherlock. (Of course). The first time he had given up cigarettes. His puppy dog face as he turned down an invitation to Dartmoor (God, he was smitten, even then). _Bluebell John! The case of the vanishing, glow-in-the-dark rabbit!_ And finally John had given in, and reached under...

John ran his fingers over the smooth top of the skull. It had become an inside joke after that, and then, their own secret hiding place. Sherlock would get John’s favorite brand of tea and hid a few bags under the skull to let him know. After their first night together, John had left Sherlock a note there, safely under Billy, “ _No regrets. Not ever._ ” And now, he lifted the skull to see what was hiding underneath.

He pulled out a small, smooth block. John concentrated and realized it was a USB stick. He flipped it over and saw the writing. Apparently today wasn’t done yet.

**A.G.R.A.**

And again, John _knew_ it was too convenient, he _knew_ he had thrown the flash drive into the fire and said, “To hell with the past!” John _knew_ all that, but he also _knew_ that this was the flash drive Mary had handed over that awful night in the sitting room at 221b, and he _knew_ it was finally time to look at it.

John turned and saw his laptop sitting on the sofa (thought of everything, didn’t you Sherlock? Everything except this morning). He went to settle down, thought better of it, and fixed himself a strong drink first.  Whiskey in hand, John finally sat, laptop balanced precariously on his lap and plugged the A.G.R.A. flash drive in. Finally.

A window opened up, with two icons. One, entitled “Project Silver Blaze,” would be intriguing under any other circumstances, but right now, he couldn’t pull his eyes away from “To My Dearest John.”

With only slightly shaking hands, John clicked. A number of documents popped up, including one entitled, “Open Me First.”

It was a letter. John took a slow sip of his drink, savoring the burn, as he began to read.

 

_Dear John,_

_Oh John, you couldn’t leave it alone, could you? Couldn’t grant me this one request. His Highness shows up after making you watch him on the roof of Bart's, then leaving for two years, then ambushing you in a restaurant and ruining our engagement with a joke to come back, and YET, you’ve bent over backwards to fit him into our lives. But you couldn’t do this one thing for me? Oh John, you’ve let me down._

_I really thought we had something special. When I met you, you were so.....lost. It’s such a good look on you, lost. Just waiting for someone to build you back up again. That’s sort of your M.O., isn’t it? And I was more than happy to be that person. All you had to do was play along, and we could have had the perfect, little family._

_But you couldn’t do that, could you? You just couldn’t let yourself be blissfully unaware? You just couldn’t let yourself be with me. The night he returned I knew we had a problem (A problem which only grew as you two got....physical). That look you had. The adoration behind the rage. I knew we were in trouble._

_So I took steps to protect our happy ending. I wasn’t going to let Sherlock Holmes waltz in and steal it away from me, from us. I knew the one thing that noble, stand up John Watson could never walk away from was a child. So I endeavored to make that happen._

_But you couldn’t even cooperate then. Your body, as it turns out, was deficient in all the ways that make you a man. You can never have children, John. You’re impotent, infertile, firing blanks. But I wasn’t going to let a shortcoming on your part stop me, John.  I always have a backup plan._

_So I called up an old friend to....pinch hit.  I’ll spare you the details, but it was nice to have it a bit rough again (Don’t feel bad, John, calm and subdued has its charms too). But David, well, he hides a lot under those ties. I even made sure Sherlock would be the one to tell you, to clearly draw the line past which he couldn’t follow._

_And yet, John, you let me down. You went back and back and back. Apparently I needed something more final than a child. I wasn’t about to let him win John; it’s not my nature. Apparently, you weren’t satisfied; you needed more than the perfect family. So together with an old associate of ours, I made a plan. And for you, a test._

_The forbidden fruit, in the form of a flash drive. I wanted to see John, if you had the same faith in me that you had in him. If you’re bottomless pit of forgiveness covered me as well._

_And you failed me John, you failed me spectacularly. Now, I could kill you for your failure, in a myriad of ways, but I think this is worst. To leave you alive, with nothing. No child, never will be. No me. No perfect family. And most importantly, no Sherlock._

_Because you see John, that associate I worked with? I think you’ll remember him; he always had a flair for the dramatic - Moriarty, his name was. And as it turns out, I’m not the only one he was making plans with. He had an arrangement with dear Sherlock as well. And from what I hear, quite an intimate one._

_We both choose a psychopath over you John, I think that says everything you need to know about your worth. Think on that, will you?_

_And remember John - you can never fail me as much as you’ve failed yourself._

_All my love,_

_Mary_

 

 

The tumbler smashed. John honestly wasn’t sure if he threw it, or if he slammed it, or if it moved of it’s own volition. He went through the rest of the documents in a blur.

There were those damned test results, showing his infertility. There were pictures, of Mary at a hotel, meeting, David? Her ex, David? And then there were documents on David, who was apparently not David at all, but someone named Sebastian Moran, a known associate of....Moriarty. And then there were pictures, Sherlock in a hospital gown sitting with a barely recognizable Moriarty. Moriarty in another disguise visiting Sherlock in prison (You had to squint, but it was him). Text messages...between Sherlock and Moriarty.

And John, supposed it wasn’t as bad as it could have been, if he hadn’t known before. But seeing proof that whatever Sherlock and Moriarty had going on had been happening for almost as long as Sherlock and John had......and it was all his fault. All of it. Mary and Moran and the baby and Moriarty and Sherlock. Everything that had happened was all his fault.

His laptop joined the tumbler on the floor. John got up, on autopilot, and made for the door. By the time he crossed the threshold, he was running. Running away from the mess of his own making his life had become.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep giving these deadlines which really turn out to be sort of aspirational. But, dear readers, rest assured that I have every intention of finishing this story, and I am continuing to work on it, albeit slowly. 
> 
> There's a chapter count now; we're at the halfway point.
> 
> This chapter involved research both into infertility testing and the layout of parks in and around London. Please let me know if I got either wrong.
> 
> I feel like John has it rough in this chapter! I'm sorry! I felt bad I did! But I needed to knock him down so he can pick himself back up! It does get better, I promise!
> 
> The chapters from here on out may be a bit shorter, to keep the pace as events pick up, but hey at least they'll be quicker to write!
> 
> What's coming next? Well I think it's about time that Mary told her side of the story.
> 
> Come say hi on [Tumblr](http://the-navel-treatment.tumblr.com/) any time!


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